


(Even in Brockton Bay) There is Strength in Sweetness

by Automatonation



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series), Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Alt-Power Taylor Hebert, Campaign 05: A Crown of Candy, D&D 5e Mechanics, Dead Nazi - and nothing of value was lost., POV Second Person, The dice are real
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26169340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Automatonation/pseuds/Automatonation
Summary: Taylor had a secret hobby that she shared with her mom that even Emma didn't know about.  Little did she know that her mother had much more that was sweet about her than anyone expected.  So after the Locker?  Well, everything changed, and life got a bit sweeter.And a lot more dangerous.TL;DR Taylor becomes a Candian from Dimension 20 Campaign 5: A Crown of Candy
Comments: 26
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

Candymaking was always a secret passion of yours. Something you shared with your mother, a quiet secret that was only worth keeping secret because it was so minor, so… meaningless. But still, in her absence, the homemade sweets that had once marked every major and minor occasion made the constant ache of her lack of presence even more acute. An aching hole in your heart – and your stomach – that made everything hurt just a little more, a fresh pain when you spy the empty candy jar on top of the fridge, or have a Christmas without delicate spun sugar snowflakes that seem too impossible to be real, yet melt delightfully in your mouth. Your mom even smelled like candy, a whiff of mint chocolate from her hair that you were never able to duplicate, no matter what shampoos you tried.  
  
Emma… Well, Emma never knew. Not really. She had enough of your mother’s work whenever she was over, but she never asked or seemed to realize that Mom _made_ the treats she loved to steal from your lunch box or grab in handfuls out of stockings and candy boxes. It should have been a refuge, the one point of comfort that she couldn’t use against you. That was your thought when you carefully tucked a wooden stick of rock candy, clumsily made over winter break and wrapped in plastic, into your pocket when you went back to Winslow.  
  
And now, trapped in your locker, up to your hips in rotten pads, sobbing, bleeding, soaked in vomit and self-loathing, your mind keeps jerking back to the broken, ruined stick of candy jabbing into your hip. As you black out, your mind tumbling into darkness, you feel the faintest brush of cool fingers against your cheek, and the whiff of mint chocolate cuts through the reek of betrayal, before fading entirely.  
  
  
  
Hands grasping, metal shrieking as doors are wrenched open and people scream or make noises of disgust. The voices fade in and out as you tenuously cling to consciousness.  
  
“...The fuck … to her?”  
  
Sirens, bright lights. Uncomfortable beds, burning pain as cool liquid touches your skin and is quickly withdrawn.  
  
“Allergic! Nurse, get me..”  
  
  
  
Time passes, until you wake up blearily. A red and white blur by your side reaches out and sets the familiar weight of your glasses on the bridge of your nose, resolving into the famous robed form of Panacea, tired, yet curious, eyes meeting yours from over freckled cheeks. “Good, you’re finally awake.”  
  
“Bwuh?” Your voice is crackly and indefinably different, in a way you can’t pin down.  
  
“Everyone was worried.” The healer’s flat tone indicated that she, at least, wasn’t. “They called me in when you nearly had a fatal allergic reaction to distilled water, of all things.”  
  
That doesn’t seem right… You had a shower this morning… The events of the day, the locker, all the horror and pain and terror flood back into you, and it’s all you can do to keep from having a panic attack. Only the touchstone of Panacea’s hand on your arm keeps you from curling into a ball. “What… happened?”  
  
“We think you triggered. It… Well, it changed you. A lot.” A glint of curiosity enters Panacea’s brown eyes. “Your body is composed almost entirely of sugars and carbohydrates now, down to the cellular level, yet everything works as if you were a normal human. It’s…” She licks her lips. “Fascinating. It’s like you’re made of candy.”  
  
What? _WHAT?_ You’re not…. You’re not human anymore? You glance down at your hands, and nearly scream.  
  
“The PRT has options for people like you. Ways they can accommodate and help those who are… changed… by their trigger.”  
  
“Mirror.” You croak. “Need a mirror.”

Panacea helps you sit up and expertly unhooks you from the single IV, hooked to a pouch full of what looked like soda. You blink at the hanging bag, confused. The healer at your elbow brushes her fingers over your arm, the port for the needle vanishing in an instant. “I’m letting you know this in advance, because you’re going to need to be cautious. Water is very, very dangerous for you, and the purer it is, the worse you’re going to react to it.”  
  
You look down at your bright red limbs, watching tendons flex and move under your skin as you move your fingers. “What does it do?” There’s a hint of black, hanging in the corner of your vision, but you ignore it, focusing on your fingers, the tiny shards of black candied crystal that form your fingernails shining glossily.  
  
“Water makes the simple sugars that comprise most of your cells break down rapidly and dissolve.” She shakes her head. “I still can’t quite figure out why, it seems to happen faster than I would have expected, even for something simple, and you seem to mostly be made of licorice, of all things, which should be more resistant to water than that.” Panacea rests her fingers on your arm again, and you see her eyes go distant for a moment. “So weird.” The corner of her mouth twists a little.  
  
“Licorice?” You shake your head abruptly, and a curtain of thick twists of black candy cross your vision. “My hair…” It was the last thing you had from your mom, the one thing you could be proud of in your appearance, and now… You rest your head in your hands and sob, thick tears of clear syrup crawling down your cheeks.  
  
Panacea doesn’t say anything, even as you curl up in the bed, clutching your knees to your chest. Eventually, her hand lands on your shoulder. “I… I’m sorry, Taylor. I couldn’t…”  
  
“Not your fault.” You croak. It’s not fair. What did you do to deserve this?  
  
The door slams open, and you twist to see your dad enter the room. He looks awful. Bags under his eyes, clothes rumpled and unkempt. He looks like he probably smells terrible, there’s actually a stain on his shirt. “Taylor! Oh, god, are you ok? I was so worried!”  
  
He sits on the bed and pulls you to him, and for a long while you just cry into his chest, until his shirt is sticky and crusty from your syrupy tears. “Dad… I’m sorry. I… I couldn’t tell you. I should have told you… And now I’m not me anymore.”  
  
Danny pats and rubs your back tenderly. “It’s ok, honey. You’re still our” – his voice hitches a bit - “my little sweetheart.”  
  
You hear a rustling of robes as Panacea stands. “I don’t usually do this, but your daughter’s case is… interesting. If there’s anything odd that happens, let me know. I’d be better able to help than a normal hospital.”  
  
“Thank you, so much.” Your dad whispers, tears in his voice. “You’re a miracle worker.”  
  
Panacea’s response is so low, you’re surprised you can hear it. “Not really.” Louder. “Just my job, Mr. Hebert.” Without another word, she leaves.  
  
It takes nearly an hour – and a visit from a blunt nurse who went through a few motions before scrawling “hell if I know” on your charts before storming out of the room – before you have the courage to make your way to the bathroom, a bundle of your clothes from home in hand so you can change, and meet your eyes in the mirror.  
  
The first thing that strikes you is that peering out from behind your thick-framed glasses are _your_ eyes, which is more of a comfort than you had possibly expected. They’re your mom’s eyes too, a warm chocolate brown, with a starburst of faint striations of pale green radiating from around the pupil. Your hair, as you discovered previously, hangs in long, thin dreadlocks of pitch-black licorice twists, but as you run your fingers through the locks, they flow around your fingers like hair. Before, your hair was long and wavy, with a tendency to curl and go bushy from the humidity, taking lots of care and attention to keep it manageable and glossy. It’s… so weird, feeling it behave like this. But somehow, it’s yours. Familiar, in a way that something you haven’t ever experienced shouldn’t be.  
  
Your skin is bright red and glossy, and the corner of your wide mouth twitches in the barest hint of a smile as you realize that your unfortunate pores are now a problem of the past. No more acne! All it took was turning into a candy girl! You force yourself to grin widely to look at the pearly white teeth that fill your mouth, and as you clench down, you see the faintest hint of blue light. Huh. Wintergreen teeth. At least you’ll always have minty-fresh breath. You’re so different. But at the same time, if you look past the color change and the hair… The shape of your mouth is the same. The same chin, the same nose. You’re just… Red. It looks better on you than you expected. Maybe it’s because you’re having to assess yourself for the first time, but you look better, in some way you can’t define.  
  
A cursory inspection reveals that your little frog tummy has disappeared, and in its place is smooth, silky red skin. No body hair, which is neat, and perhaps a bit relieving. What would leg hair made of black licorice look like? Your muscles feel better too, playing like braided cords under your skin. Bundles of licorice, maybe? Flexing an arm in the mirror shows a bicep that you simply hadn’t had before.  
  
Why are you okay with this? Is this what it feels like to be comfortable in your body? Intellectually, you knew that you weren’t before. It wasn’t something you could put a finger on, not uncertainty in whether you were a girl or not, just something… awkward about yourself. A feeling of _something_ being wrong that now, somehow, felt right. And all it took was the worst day of your life.  
  
“Taylor, you decent?” Dad knocks on the door, and you blush crimson, scrambling to throw your old shirt and jeans on. They feel… Off. The fabric feels coarser than you remember, and it clings oddly to your skin.  
  
“Yeah, Dad”, you reply, pulling your hair out of the neck of your t-shirt.  
  
He cautiously opens the heavy wooden door of the hospital bathroom. “You look fine.” He gulps, meeting your eyes with a smile. “It’s… It’s OK.”  
  
“No, it’s not. This shouldn’t have happened.” The words come out with more force than you expected.  
  
“Honey, you’re beautiful.” You glance over at your Dad, standing behind you, and realize that you’re standing up straight, and only a few inches from being able to look him in the eye.  
  
“That’s not what I meant. It shouldn’t have happened like this. I’m…” You sigh, letting the emotions out in a minty breath. “I should have told you. I shouldn’t have tried to hide it.”  
  
“The bullying?”  
  
“You knew?” You blurt.  
  
“Not until the hospital,” Dad says lowly, rage and shame creeping into his expression. “You were in a coma for a week, even with Panacea’s help. You were changing, transforming into…”  
  
“Into candy.”  
  
“Yeah.” He lets out a shuddering breath, steeling himself. “I went into your room. Found the journals. Gave them – copies of them – to the police.”  
  
“You know then…. That Emma?”  
  
Dad practically snarls. “Alan is lucky he didn’t have any more clue than I did what that little cunt was doing.”  
  
“Dad!” You squeal, scandalized. He _never_ uses that kind of language.  
  
“She made you _trigger_ , Taylor. Your mother told me what that takes. I read the journals, saw my daughter being picked to pieces by her former friend.” Danny slumps in on himself. “And in retrospect, I should have seen. I was too blind.”  
  
You lunge to him and wrap him in a firm hug, and he grunts. “I should have told you, Dad.” He lets out a long sigh, and you squeeze him tightly. “I didn’t want to worry you.” Didn’t want to be the thing that broke him, not when he was already so shattered from Mom. You were both so fragile, and the mental image of the both of you shattering like peanut brittle makes you laugh and sob in a single choked gasp. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Dad checks you out of the hospital, but rather than heading home, like you dearly wish you could, longing for a touchstone of familiarity, he takes you to a nondescript apartment building in a fairly bland part of town. “Dad, what’s going on?”  
  
He sighs. “Taylor, your appearance changed. Dramatically. It’s… It’s not safe to go home yet. Not until we know what you can do. The PRT is watching our house, but your name got out, and it’s a guarantee that the gangs know where we live.”  
  
Fuck. “Fuck.” You whisper. Is there anything else left to ruin?  
  
Your father glances over at you. “We brought your things. This is just temporary until we can get more settled.”  
  
It’s really sinking in for you, now. Your life has been upended, your body changed, your privacy shattered. Emma took everything away from you. Except for your Dad. You glance over at him across the cab of the beat-up old truck. “Wait, we?”  
  
“Kurt and I. Lacey packed your things up.” Dad looked ashamed again. “I… I didn’t realize how many of your things had been ruined.”  
  
“I’ve been hiding it. Going to Goodwill and other resale shops.” You roll your shoulders, the coarse fabric of your bra chafing at your skin in ways it didn’t use to. “Can we just go in?”  
  
“Yeah. We need to meet your new social worker too.”  
  
“what.”  
  
  
  
As it turns out, over the past several years there had been a noticeable increase in the number of parahumans who were visibly mutated by their trigger events. This, coupled with the resignation of PRT Chief Director Costa-Brown last year and her replacement by Director Armstrong, formerly of Boston, led to a wave of new initiatives intended to help prevent new parahumans from falling into villainy, without press-ganging them into the Wards or Protectorate. One of those offered alternative housing and security measures for those people whose trigger events left them with distinctively non-human appearances, as well as counseling and integration services – although from what Dad told you, you are likely one of the first members of the program, here in Brockton Bay.  
  
As part of that program, the PRT had assigned us a safehouse apartment, located on the third floor of a five-story apartment building, with a team of plain-clothes surveillance in several unspecified nearby apartments. You grimace as you walk in. It’s blandly furnished, feeling more like a hotel room than a home, and consists of a simple adjoined living room and kitchen, with a short hallway leading off and leading to two bedrooms. A tiny bathroom with a walk-in shower is located at the end of the hall, and there are no apparent laundry facilities – you’ll need to use a laundromat. Dad matches your expression. “It looks like my old college dorm.” He shakes his head and shows you to your room. It’s a little jarring, seeing your old sheets on a new bed, your clothes and accessories peeking out of new furniture. God, your clothes itch.  
  
“Dad… How long is this going to be?”  
  
“I don’t know, honey.” Dad’s jaw clenches as he looks over the tiny home, then he slumps. “I don’t know.”  
  
  
  
  
You can’t bring yourself to eat the slices of ham and turkey in your sandwich, and only barely stomach the lettuce. Even the tomatoes and bread are terribly bitter and sour, and the only way you can force yourself to eat them is with copious amounts of sweet Miracle Whip – something you would have found disgusting, in your old body. Dad looks at you and sighs. “Makes sense. Your body changed, so your taste buds have as well.” He gives an abbreviated laugh, nearly a cough. “Reminds me of your mother, when we first started dating. Never ate anything unless it was at least a little sweet.”  
  
“I don’t think that changed much, Dad.” You murmur, the corner of your lip twisting into a pained smile. “She always had something sweet. Every meal, never fail.”  
  
An odd look enters Dad’s eyes, and he abruptly stands from the table, before he goes to his bedroom. Minutes later, he emerges, holding an old, cream-colored envelope in trembling hands. Wordlessly, he places it before you. You look down at it, tears threatening to well in your eyes at the sight of your mother’s favorite stationary. The thick, textured paper envelope bears a cherry-red wax seal with an odd, swirling symbol that resembles a peppermint pressed into it, and with a shaking hand, you turn it over.  
  
‘ _To my beloved Taylor; for if you find yourself far sweeter than you were already._ ’ Her handwriting is familiar, a strong, smooth, and delicately curved cursive, etched in deep blue ink, barely faded with time.  
  
“I never stopped being surprised at what your mother knew or didn’t know.” Dad murmurs, standing behind you, his hand on the back of your chair. “I found this letter inside my desk, the week after she… After the accident. I couldn’t bear to look at it then, but…”  
  
“Yeah.” You slip a thumb under the edge of the envelope, popping off the wax seal, and delicately open the envelope, pulling a thick bundle of folded paper from inside.  
  
  
 _Sweetheart,  
  
As I write this letter, you are sleeping off the excitement of your tenth birthday, sprawled on your bed with your best friend, sticky with chocolate, and full to the brim with hopes and dreams for the future. Just this morning, you told me you wanted to be a superhero, and that you hoped you would get powers so you could help a lot of people. I can only pray that this never comes to pass. I know, far better than most, the cost of power, and have seen the pain suffered by heroes – or by those who would try to become heroes. I would spare you such pain for as long as I am able, but you are my daughter, and your father’s daughter, and I can already see the capacity for righteous anger that lies within you, waiting for a cause. A spark.  
  
I hope you never have to read this, truly, because it will mean that I cannot tell you in person, won’t have the chance to truly share my heritage with you. However, there are things that one cannot leave to chance or fate. It’s hard to put it into words, this secret I have concealed for fifteen long years. I haven’t even told your father, though I know he suspects that I am different. He is a far more intelligent man than he would like to let on. And of course, I am diverging again. I shall say it flat out:  
  
I am not of this world.  
  
An alien, in the truest sense of the world, but not one brought here by spacecraft from other, distant spheres, or snatched away from other Earths by parahuman might. I came here, by accident, but under my own power, from a distant plane – a dimension far different from this one, yet similar in so many odd ways.  
  
My name is… My name was Andesnetta Rosalindt. I haven’t thought of my original name in years. I put it away, with all the other older parts of me, when I made a new identity for myself here, and became simply Annette Rose, later Annette Hebert. I am a Candian, from the great nation of Candia, the center of the world of Calorum. I was a student in the Lazuli Memorial University of Magic, and botched a ritual terribly, ripping a portal through space and time. It took all my concentration and focus to stitch it closed, and I could spare none for keeping myself on the correct side.  
  
I am a Candian, and that means that I am made of candy, much like humans are made of meat and protein, bone and sinew. If what I fear has come to pass, you may be as well. It is odd to describe myself, but I was of the house Rosalindt, a proud family of chocolatiers and craftsmen, although that word means something different to me than it does in my new home. I was considered quite the beauty, my minty skin and long, flowing dark chocolate hair attracting many suitors, but I was devoted to my studies. I wanted to become a mage, to warp the fabric of the world to my whim, like the great Archmage Lazuli and mighty Queen Saccharina. I got to meet her once, as a very young girl, younger than you are now. She was getting on in years, but still visited Dulcington every week, to give us rides on her mighty dragon, Cinnamon.  
  
There’s simply so much to tell you that I cannot in these short pages. Suffice to say, that waking up in a strange land, staring at a bizarre meat-person in a formal suit is never pleasant. Far less pleasant to learn that this land was full of deadly hazards. I nearly died a dozen times in the first few days, just due to all the water, in places I wasn’t expecting. I was miserable. No pleasant cola showers, no warm chocolate rainstorms. Fortuna – that was the name of my rescuer, a young woman with an impressive sense of timing, and something deeply sad about her that I could never pry out of her – eventually convinced me that the only way to be safe would be to find a way to fit in. To become one of these strange meatlanders.  
  
It was my master-work. It was the last act of Magic I could ever cast, and to this day, I think it was only worth it because of you, Taylor. I took everything that I was, every ounce of magic, sugar, juice, and fiber, and transformed myself into the woman you know as your mother. I never again plucked at the fabric of the world, felt fate dance around my fingers like spun sugar on the looms. But… I was safe. The fear of death, of annihilation, of dissolution, can drive you to do terrible things, if only to yourself.  
  
As I read back on this letter, I realize that I may be leaving more questions than answers. I cannot bear to write anymore. Suffice to say that I learned to make my way in this new world, both more mundane and more magical than my own. Met your father. Fell in love. Had you, and truly, though I did give up much, I would give up all I had again if it were enough to keep you safe.  
  
If you are reading this, and your Candian heritage has revealed itself, I have included a key to a safe deposit box, bearing the last two artifacts of my world, as feeble as they may be. I know not what good they will do you, but if I am no longer there… Then at least you can hold the final pieces of Candia in my place.  
  
There is no further room for words, and so I must bring the ramblings of an ~~old,~~ ~~middle-aged~~ , mother to a close.  
  
Remember: There is Strength in Sweetness, but in Sweetness, there must also be Strength.  
  
Taylor, I love you.  
  
  
Andesnetta Rosalindt-Hebert_  
  
  
  
  
  
There are no further words that night. Neither you, nor your father can find it in you to speak, only to re-read the rambling letter in familiar handwriting, and wonder how someone so familiar could have held such a secret for so long.  
  
The next morning, after a fitful sleep in a scratchy, uncomfortable bed, you wake up late in an empty apartment. A letter from Dad on the kitchen table says that he went to the bank, to get the contents of your mother’s safe deposit box. In the meantime… A box of frosted corn flakes is the most palatable thing you’ve had to eat since your transformation, although it tastes flat and artificial, some instinct telling you that you could make better ones, with the right tools. You snort, and eat another spoonful. Instincts. Candian instincts. Maybe you just needed stuff with more sugar. That makes sense, right? Humans need proteins, vitamins, minerals, and carbohydrates and sugar for energy. You’re made of candy now, you need all sugar, all the time. You finish the bowl, and pour another, sloshing the last of the milk inside. Maybe this way, you won’t have to worry about getting fat?  
  
The second bowl of cereal later, and fully sated, you throw yourself down on the unfamiliar couch and grimace at the coarse texture against your skin. Ugh. Everything _feels_ awful. It’s not really that your skin is delicate, but it’s oddly sensitive, in an unpleasant sort of way. You scowl, and stare at the ceiling lamp, spinning the spoon from your breakfast in your fingers. It’s bright, but not so bright it hurts your eyes. None of your books are here. You have no interest in the TV. And there’s been so much on your mind lately that you just don’t want to think at all.  
  
Lulled by the light and the listless boredom, you slip into a sort of meditative state, listening to the hum of the appliances, the light from the fixture above growing steadily brighter, but never burning your new eyes. Drifting, you’re struck by a feeling of weightlessness, and then snap awake.  
  
You are in a world of light. Everything was light, floating in a sea of vast, endless brightness, so bright that it became meaningless, and illuminated nothing, for there was nothing to illuminate. It would be impossible to call it blazing, for while there was a sense of heat, it was only warm in the sense that it was not cool, simply… balanced. You spin, floating, and promptly lose all sense of direction… except… There’s a faint tug. A pull, not something you feel with your body, but with your mind. You let it pull you along, slow, inexorable, like gravity.  
  
The brightness grows stronger and stronger, and the faint tug, the connection that you feel to the light, seems to glow brighter in response. You stare into the light, open yourself to it, and let it fill you. It’s… Comforting. Incredibly vast, incredibly powerful and potent, a huge well of energy that simply… waits. Content. Ready to be used, but content in idleness. But while the light may be idle, you are not, and with a twist of instinct, you _pull_ on the light with a sharp tug.  
  
Eyes snapping open, you stare at the spoon in your hands, which glows with a steady, warm light, just like the one in your vision. You’re still staring at it, enthralled, when your father opens the door. “Dad… I have powers.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skill rolls are included in curly brackets

> Foreward:
> 
> After the brief, but intense Concordian Succession Crisis that ended with Emperor Amethar the Unbroken on the throne of the Concordant Empire and his daughter, Queen Saccharina of House Frostwhip on the throne of the suddenly enlarged nation of Candia, the revelations that they discovered on their quest for truth and justice shook the Bulbian Church to its core. After a series of schisms, which gave rise to many fanatic groups, including the noted terrorist organization, the Scions of Keradin, the Bulbian church held a great summit in the Ceresian city of Ricea, inviting druids of the Sweetening Path, Meatlander Shamans, and most notably Saint Liam Wilhelmina the Gardener, who witnessed both the Bulb and the Hungry One after the death of the Sugar Plum Fairy.
> 
> With his testimony and recounting of the discoveries of the late Primogen Lapin Cadbury, the Bulbian Church was fully disbanded and reconstituted into the Reformed Bulbian Church. The core foundation of the Reformed Bulbian Church’s doctrine is that while Bulb will not judge the deeds of any Caloran, one must judge yourself by the truth that is revealed in its light, and that the Hungry One is not truly evil, but simply desires to consume all things. Church scholars determined that The Bulb and The Hungry One were simply two ends of an endless magical cycle, where all things are created and sustained by The Bulb, only to eventually succumb to entropy and be consumed by the Hungry One, and that once consumed, they will eventually be created anew by The Bulb.
> 
> With this dramatic change in the understanding of the nature of The Bulb, many feared that the concept of morality itself would be thrown to the hothounds, so to counter this, the Seven Tenets of The Bulb was written, which still derive truth, healing, and understanding from the Light of The Bulb, but acknowledge that it is a truly neutral source of power. Kindness, truthfulness, consideration of others, and encouraging growth, health, and change are all critical portions of Bulbian doctrine.
> 
> Magics not derived directly from miracles of The Bulb are no longer considered witchcraft, and it was acknowledged that magic could arise from four known sources: The Bulb, The Hungry One, lesser spirits that inhabit the nations of Calorum, or even the hearts and wills of any individual Caloran. There are no longer any theological proscriptions against any category of magic, although there are still specific acts of magic defined as evil, particularly some acts of Putromancy, the magic of animating rot and mold. Instead, the results and intentions of each act are examined, for the machinations of notorious figures like former Pontifex Brassica and Paladin Keradin Deeproot have shown the even the power of The Bulb can do great damage in the hands of the Wicked, and Saint Wilhelmina demonstrated that the power of the Hungry One can consume the wicked when wielded by the hands of the just.
> 
> In the forty years since the Council of Ricea at the time of this writing, there have been several minor changes to lesser doctrines, and many schisms and sects have attempted to tear it down, but the Reformed Bulbian Church still stands proud and strong in the Light of the Bulb, its churches and clinics spreading light and healing throughout Calorum.
> 
> The Seven Tenets of The Bulb:
> 
> The Bulb shines upon all.  
> Anyone who is willing to open the door, The Bulb shall illuminate.  
> The light of The Bulb reveals all truth.  
> As The Bulb shines upon all, so you shall spread light to all you meet.  
> The Bulb preserves all who bask in its light.  
> Those who have hearts that dwell in darkness cannot stand before the light of The Bulb.  
> There is no judgment, there is only The Bulb.
> 
> Source: In Tenebris, Lucem Magnam: The Compiled Doctrine of The Bulb

  
  
  
“Taylor.”  
  
You look up from your reading. The book that your father found in your mother’s safe-deposit box was fascinating, a religious text with many similarities to the ones you are aware of on Earth, but where rather than deriving sin from the deity and claiming judgment would come from on high, they instead asserted that The Bulb simply revealed all truth, and that sin was in thinking of yourself as more than or before others. An extrapolation of the Golden Rule? Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. The idea of determining your own morality through how you treat others resonates with you, far more than any sporadic Sunday School class did when you were younger. After all, you’ve learned by now that hell is other people. You put a finger between two pages that look and smell like milk but feel like silk on your fingertips, and smile at your father. “Yeah?”  
  
“The PRT caseworker will be here soon. Thought you’d like to…” Dad’s wearing a button-down shirt and khakis – his office clothes – and you look down at your loose sweatpants and shirt and wince. It’s not the best way to make a good impression, but it’s the most comfortable set of clothes you own, the soft lining of the plush material only scraping at your sensitive skin a little. You’re going to _have_ to do something about that. Everything you own is driving you to distraction.  
  
“I guess.” You reply, slipping a mint-green ribbon, made of woven cotton candy fiber, into your place in the book. It had been tucked inside the thick graham cracker binding of the holy book and had the initials AR embroidered onto it in deep brown thread, so you could only assume it was your mother’s. “Did you find out anything about the storage building?”  
  
The other thing Dad had found in the safe-deposit box was the paperwork for a long-term refrigerated storage building with a ten-year lease, last renewed four months before she died. “I called, and they are still operational, and have kept it locked and powered. With this paperwork, we should be able to get in. Want to go later?”  
  
“Yeah. After I see what’s going on with the caseworker.” With a gesture and a mutter of nonsense syllables under your breath, the circular patch of wall above your head stops glowing with warm, yellow light. There’s more to your power, you _know_ it, but for now, the ability to make things light up in various colors is… Well, it’s useful, but a bit underwhelming. Making your way to the bedroom where you are staying – it’s certainly not your bedroom yet – you look through the clothes. There’s a nice light gray blouse in a thin, silky material that you hadn’t tried on yet that may be comfortable enough, and a long, lightweight black skirt that you didn’t recognize. Could this be one of Mom’s? You worry at your lip with your teeth, only to recoil instinctively at the sweet taste of red licorice. Nope, no auto-cannibalism, thank you. Even if you are delicious.  
  
A quick wipe-down with baby wipes later, the disposable wipes leaving your skin tingling and faintly itchy, but seemingly undamaged, as well as free of the sickly sweet scent of your sweat, and you dress in the more formal clothes, slipping your red feet into a pair of black flats that pinched slightly, a little too small. You only really wore them for formal occasions, ones that were far too rare these days. The new outfit… Well, it will work for a while. The blouse is a little less scratchy than your t-shirts, but it’s still uncomfortable, catching and dragging on your skin when it moves, and the skirt is distracting, but that may be because you’re not used to wearing anything but pants. At least it’s only irritating where it touches you.  
  
When you go back in the living room, wincing faintly with each step until you finally kick off the shoes when you reach the couch – fuck them, they were too small, even before you changed – Dad smiles at you. “You remind me more and more of your mother, Taylor. That’s a good look on you.”  
  
“Thanks, Dad.” You murmur. “I don’t feel like it. Everything’s so… Itchy.”  
  
“Well, we’ll figure something out.” He opens his mouth to say more, but there’s a knock on the door. Striding over to the door, he squints out the peephole, then opens it. You notice, rather suddenly, that the front door is reinforced with metal and has a fairly robust lock. There’s rather more security here than you initially thought. Dad stands out of the way, and you barely contain the squeal of excitement that threatens to explode out of you as Miss Militia steps in, followed by a curvaceous dark-skinned woman wearing a navy blue pantsuit. The heroine nods to you politely, her American-flag bandanna concealing any expression, and you give her a nervous smile.  
  
“Welcome!” Dad says, going to the kitchen and grabbing a pair of chairs to set on the other side of the coffee table. “I wasn’t expecting to have one of the Protectorate in my home today. It’s good to see you again, Miss Militia.”  
  
“Likewise, Mr. Hebert. I’m glad to see that your daughter has recovered. Panacea reported that it was touch and go, for a bit.”  
  
Your father glowers for a moment, before shaking his head. “It’s still… Well, I’m having a hard time believing what happened, still.”  
  
The heroine nods sympathetically. “I understand. It’s always difficult to deal with the aftermath of an event like this.”  
  
“So why are you here?” You ask finally, internally wincing at your blunt question.  
  
Miss Militia meets your eyes, and you can tell that she’s smiling underneath her mask. “Partially, because it’s standard procedure to provide a cape escort for the initial meeting between a new parahuman and their caseworker, but I requested to come because I’ve met your father before, and thought he would appreciate a familiar face.” {Insight: 19+2=21}  
  
She’s telling the truth, but… Something tells you that there’s something underlying it, something she’s not saying. Either a hint of guilt in her eyes, or maybe just a sense that she felt that she would be better than whoever was originally assigned to meet you. Behind Miss Militia, the caseworker clears her throat, and you turn your attention to her. On closer inspection, while she’s curvy, the curves do nothing to conceal a powerfully muscled frame. She stands, around three inches shorter than you despite her sensible heeled shoes, but there’s a sense of trained skill in how she moves and stands. Her hair, just starting to grey at the temples, is cropped into short, dense curls, and she wears an eyepatch over her left eye, with a glossy burn scar stretching up her forehead and cutting into her hairline. Still, she’s sporting a cheerful smile. “Hello, Mr. Hebert, Miss Hebert. My name is Desmonda McAdams, and I’m your court-assigned caseworker.”  
  
“Nice to meet you.” You mutter. You feel like you ought to shake her hand, but she doesn’t offer, and ultimately, it makes sense not to offer physical contact with a parahuman with unknown powers. Desmonda nods in response, taking a seat in the chair that Dad brought for her, while you sit awkwardly across from her on the couch.  
  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Miss Hebert.” She sets a briefcase beside her, before folding her hands in her lap and regarding you carefully. “I am here to be an advocate for your rights within the PRT at large, and to make sure you know and have access to all the options available to help you regain something approaching normality.” You can’t help but scoff at the word, and she nods knowingly. “I know it’s an odd concept to consider, and you will need to make some accommodations, like anyone who has gone through a traumatic experience, whether they gain powers or not, but we want to help you. I want to help you.”  
  
“Thanks.” She certainly seems genuine.  
  
Desmonda looks you up and down carefully, her lips pursing in thought. “You look like you are coping as well as could be expected, given the circumstances. I won’t lie and say that you have the most drastic documented changes after a trigger event on record, but very few have the same degree of physiological changes and still visibly resemble their…” She trails off for a moment, grimacing. “Former selves is the phrase that comes to mind, but it implies a degree of separation or rebirth that isn’t accurate. You’re still the same person you were before you triggered.”  
  
“I know.” You state confidently. That’s true. Your mom’s letter helped, but being able to see yourself when you look in the mirror, even if you’ve changed is comforting.  
  
The social worker beams. “Excellent!” Taking some papers out of her briefcase, she passes them to Dad. “So, there are several options available, and I don’t want you to feel forced to answer now or choose any particular option right away, and you can always change your mind at a later date.” As your father takes the papers, Desmonda looks back at you. “As I mentioned, I am a caseworker who has been assigned to be your advocate. I am affiliated with the PRT, but as part of the Department of Parahuman Welfare, which is not part of the law enforcement division or directly linked to the Protectorate, but does work with individual Parahumans within the Wards and Protectorate, as well as with any who are not affiliated with those organizations.”  
  
“I’m guessing that Taylor is not your only case?” Dad asks, sitting down beside you and neatening the papers without looking at them.  
  
“Correct, but I’m not allowed to go into detail. Confidentiality reasons, I’m sure you understand.” Desmonda smiles. “Simply put, I’m here to make sure that you get the tools you need to be safe, healthy, and happy. Whether it’s arranging for therapy or medical care, documentation that you need for accommodations so you can finish school, or even helping you make contacts with employers or starting your own business under the newly loosened laws for parahuman-based goods and services, I am here to help you.” She takes a breath, relaxing a little after what seemed to be a carefully rehearsed phrase. “But primarily, I’m here to listen, and I’m here to _help_.” The caseworker pulls a pad of paper out of her briefcase and rests it on her lap, clicking a pen before resting the tip of the pen lightly on the paper. “So, what do you need?”  
  
“I…” You squirm a little in your uncomfortable clothes. “I don’t know. It’s too soon.”  
  
“I understand completely. You’ve had some big changes, and you’re still trying to get settled in.” Desmonda chuckles. “I know that I didn’t have a single big moment when I decided to join the PRT, and later become a social worker. Some decisions take time.”  
  
“You haven’t said anything about joining the Wards.” Dad says suspiciously.  
  
Desmonda spreads her hands. “The Wards are certainly an option, and while we would love to have you on the team, ultimately, the decision is about what is best for you. They do have access to the Protectorate, which means that here in Brockton Bay, that includes access to Armsmaster, one of the best Tinkers on the East Coast, as well as the state-of-the-art testing facilities in the Rig, so you would have far more opportunities to learn about your powers, and how to control them.” She glances over at Miss Militia, who nods. “On the other hand… There are some things that you may want to consider. At this time, we have no evidence that you have any other powers than being made of candy… And joining the Wards would bring a lot of scrutiny on you personally. You would be, for better or worse, a public figure, with certain societal expectations.”  
  
“They’d expect me to be a superhero.”  
  
“Yes.” Another glance at Miss Militia. “My goal is for you to be safe, and in many cities, despite what many Wards wish were true, there is little danger or excitement to be had.”  
  
“But not here.” Dad states.  
  
Miss Militia nods slowly. “Brockton Bay is an outlier in many ways, but one of the most significant is the amount of combat seen by our local Wards.” Dad’s lips tense into a thin line. “Professionally, as a hero, I appreciate the work that they do. Vista has saved my life on at least one occasion, as has Clockblocker.”  
  
“But that means that these children were in life-threatening situations.” Desmonda murmurs gently, looking between me and my father. It’s somewhat galling, to be lumped in with ‘children’ after what I’ve been through. After what every single Ward must have been through if they have powers. Still, I’ve wanted to be a hero for as long as I can remember….  
  
“There are other options.” Desmonda continues. “This does depend on what your powers do, if you do have further abilities, but we can help you find work placement after you finish your education, or help you start your own business.” She chuckles. “Someone in the marketing department with Hershey already reached out to me and asked if you wanted to be a spokesperson for Twizzlers.”  
  
“I look delicious, please eat me?” You blurt, then feel yourself blushing an even darker red as the three adults burst into laughter.  
  
“I’ll send them a note that you respectfully decline,” Desmonda says after a few chuckles.  
  
“Yeah. Thanks.” You pause. You did recall hearing about Director Armstrong advocating some changes to legal codes that meant that it was easier for parahumans to make money with their powers, and therefore less likely to turn to crime. There were a lot of people up in arms about it, though, so although the laws had passed, narrowly, it hadn’t made much of a change. You had heard lots of critics who said it wasn’t fair for ‘normal’ people. “So, if I decide I want to start a business?”  
  
“Say you discover you have a power that you can market, or you want to use some other skill to earn a living. We can help you get loans and subsidies to get that started, and help you navigate the bureaucracy so that you’re running legally.”  
  
“So if I decide I wanted to run a candy shop with my image as advertising?”  
  
Desmonda purses her lips. “Would you be producing the candy with a Parahuman ability? Would you be able to submit it for testing to show that it’s safe for human consumption?” She glances over at Miss Militia again. “And since your body is made of candy, how can we keep track of health code issues…” She looks back to you, her expression sheepish. “I can’t answer that right now, but if that’s something you want to pursue, I would be happy to look into it for you.”  
  
“I get it.” Something is bothering you though… She keeps saying that they don’t know any of your other powers. And something tells you that you have more powers that you haven’t fully discovered yet. And there’s that thing about being descended from someone from another dimension, which can’t be common… {Insight: 4+2=6}  
  
Probably nothing to worry about.  
  
Over the next half-hour or so, you go over a few other topics, such as your water allergy and how you may be able to get back into school – with the PRT offering to either subsidize a GED or help you get enrolled into Clarendon at the beginning of the next school year, with placement testing – as well as options for finding therapists and physicians with experience with parahuman biology. By the time you finally say goodbye, you actually have a good feeling about your future, a feeling so unusual it has you nervous and off-center.  
  
“Taylor, I just want you to know that if you ever need help, or even just to talk, give me a call.” Mrs. McAdams slips her business card into your hand. “It was terrible, what happened to you, and I know that you’ve got this huge, daunting thing hanging over your head.” She glances at your dad and leans in closer. “I can read between the lines, and I know that your dad hasn’t been… perhaps the most helpful for you. He seems like he loves you, but if you need anything….” She pats your shoulder. “Just call.”  
  
“I will.” You say, and are surprised to find it may not be a lie.  
  
  
  
After a quick lunch – which for you consists of some store-bought chocolate muffins that are at least edible, if not as good as what Mom used to make – and a quick run to a corner market to yield enough makeup that you can cake it on and appear somewhat normal if you hunch up in a hoodie and don’t get close to people, you and your father take the truck over to the storage center where your mom had left the final part of her gifts. Your inheritance, you suppose. It’s hard to think about. A scrawny, acne-scarred man in his early twenties, wearing the red and black company polo for the local U-Store-It leads us to the climate-controlled storage unit at the end of a long hallway, and then stands around for a while waiting for us to open it, before Dad’s silent glare sends him wandering back to the office. {Perception: 16+2 = 18} There was a moment when he seemed to do a double-take at you and your heart leaped in your chest, convinced that he notices something different about you, but he didn’t say a thing, just looked away. As he slouches away, hands in his pockets, your father turns to you.  
  
“Well.” Dad says softly, key clenched in white fingers.  
  
“Yeah.” You suck in a sharp breath through your teeth. “Let’s… Let’s open it I guess.”  
  
Dad unlocks the padlock on the sliding door, and as it clatters upwards, a blast of cool air hits you in the face, bringing the smell of stale sugar. Around the edges of the small storage locker are a handful of closed plastic crates, some small, others large enough that you think you and Dad may not be able to carry any of them together, but sitting in the middle of the room is a tall contraption made of thick planks of red and white-striped lumber. You step closer, peering at it closely. {Investigation (Advantage due to time to study the device, History proficiency) (4,16)+4=20}  
  
You realize suddenly that it’s a loom, meant for weaving thread into fabric, but made out of the largest pieces of peppermint you’ve ever seen. As you get closer, you see that the peppermint has the swirling patterns and knots of natural wood grains, and appears to have been cut out of logs of some kind of peppermint tree and carefully pieced together with pegs and rotating parts. The loom appears to be collapsible, and while it would still be a bit cumbersome, between you and your Dad, if you had somewhere to put it, it wouldn’t be ridicule to pack it up and move it to somewhere it could be used. You get a feeling that this Candian loom wouldn’t work well for normal fabric, though.  
  
“Dad, it’s peppermint!” You nearly squeal in excitement.  
  
“She was telling the truth.” Dad says, running his fingers along the simple carved decorations at the top part of the loom. He glances at your affronted expression. “I believed the letter, and the book was… something, but seeing something like this… This is incredible.”  
  
“Yeah.” Your eye catches a sheet of paper, resting on one of the crates, being weighed down by a piece of jewelry. You pick it up.

  
  
_To the Licorice girl;  
  
I know not who you are, but if my final divinations are correct, you may need this more than I. This cotton candy loom is an heirloom of mine, given to me by my mother, in the hopes that if my magical training were to fail, it would give me the tools I needed to get back on my feet and earn a living. I never needed it, but I suspect that you may, if the flashes I have seen are true. The dimensional bag I kept it in collapsed as I hurtled through the void between worlds, but it emerged, unscathed, with me on the other side. I have included instructions, as well as tips for as many other craft trades of Candia that I can remember. May this gift serve you well – I shall need it no longer.  
  
Andesnetta Rosalindt.  
  
PS: The amulet of The Bulb I included with this letter may be used as a simple arcane focus for those who derive their power from The Bulb, according to the young Celerean acolyte who gave it to me as a wooing gift. I kept it as a memoir of our brief romance, but once again, I have no need of it._

  
It’s odd, reading an impersonal letter from your mother, especially after one that was so deeply personal. You pass it to your father and pick up the amulet, which resembles nothing so more than a clear rock-candy light bulb, set in a gold-colored base, with a starburst of seven rays of light emerging from the center. The chain is made of solid, slightly sticky golden links, and, driven by some instinct, you loop the chain around your neck. As you do, the orb on the amulet briefly flares with the warm yellow-white light, and you feel your connection to the light within you strengthen. You do draw power from The Bulb, then. You had suspected, from your reading earlier.  
  
The nebulous connection that you had to the Bulb strengthens and solidifies, and you begin to feel a rhythmic ebb and flow. Touching your fingers to the lid of one of the smaller boxes, you let your lips shape into nonsense syllables, and it blazes with light. The pool of light ebbs within you, and you start counting. One, two, three, four, five, six. There’s a sense of completion, and you feel that you could cast the light spell again – or something else.  
  
Closing your eyes, you drop into a crosslegged stance on the floor, trying to go into a meditative state. As you drift, you find what you are looking for. There are six spells – four smaller ones and two larger – nestled in the light of The Bulb that glows gently at the back of your mind. Of the smaller skills, One of them is the ability to make things glow with light, but two feel stronger, like they could hurt people. Your licorice brow furrows. Something about… descending light? Another is like a bolt of force? Hard light, maybe? The final spell feels like minor changes, like cleaning, or warping the environment in small ways. That’s useful, if only for cleaning.  
  
You try to get a better feel for the larger spells, but they are more distant, somehow. {Arcana: 18+4=22} With a surge of concentration, you reach out, and seize the remote sensations. The first is some kind of conjuration, a way to create a semi-autonomous helper that would perform mundane tasks. Already, you have some ideas for ways that an invisible helper could help, even if it’s just with chores. The final spell… You can’t help but gasp.  
  
“Dad! I have a healing power!” You burst out of meditation with a grin.  
  
“You what?” Dad says, looking up from where he’s investigating something inside one of the crates.  
  
“I can cast a spell that will let me heal myself or someone else. I can’t do it often, it feels like it would wear me out, or at least need time to recharge, but I can help people.”  
  
He shakes his head with a chuckle. “My daughter’s a licorice magician.” You pout at him, but he gives you a smile back. “I’m proud of you, kiddo.”  
  
With a groan, you push yourself to your feet. How long were you sitting there? As it turns out, it was about half an hour, and your father had managed to find the book with information on Candian crafting techniques, which included a few recipes for nutritious candy meals that you think you can adapt or make with stuff from the supermarket, rather than using actual candy apples or sugar bacon cut from gummy pigs. You decide to leave the rest of the stuff in the storage locker until you have a place to put it, and make your way out of the Storage locker, only to freeze as you step out the door, onto a sidewalk between a pair of tall fences. You hear the _clunk_ of an electronic lock behind you.  
  
Leaning against your Dad’s truck is a man in stylized plate armor, painted with the linked, stylized eights of the Empire 88 on the left pectoral plate, right over his heart. A long spear lies crooked in his arm, and he’s chatting with a pair of obvious thugs with shaved heads and leather jackets. As he sees you, the armored man stands up straight, looking right at you and your father.  
  
“Well, well, well.” He drawls. “Fancy seeing you here, Mr Hebert.”  
  
“Crusader.” Dad snaps, a snarl twisting his lips. “I thought I told you where you could shove your boss’s offer when he approached me last year, and the year before that.”  
  
“Ah, but we’re not in the Docks, are we?” Crusader says, and you can hear a grin in his voice. “No, this offer is a bit more… personal.”  
  
You step forward beside your dad and with a twitch of your fingers, cast the cleaning spell as you lower the hood of your hoodie, the makeup vanishing, and leaving your red licorice skin to shine glossily in the mid-afternoon light. “Think I’m the wrong color for your gang.” You drawl. “Not interested.”  
  
Crusader waves you off. “Nah, you were white before, so it ain’t your fault you look like some injun now.” He snorts. “Kaiser said you could be an equal-opportunity hire, bring in a little diversity in the ranks.” {Insight: 16+2 = 18} You get the feeling that Kaiser did say something along those lines, but that Crusader isn’t totally convinced it’s a great idea. He sounds like he’s almost eager for you to refuse.  
  
“You can tell him that I refuse to be part of an organization that my grandfather went to Germany to try and stamp out.” You spit.  
  
“Always with the Nazi shit. Can’t people see that we’re just trying to help the average joes fight against the subhumans and jews holding them down?” Crusader groans. He grips his spear and the air seems to shiver around him before a pair of translucent white copies split off and stand on either side of him lowering the long spears to point at you. The thugs grin, one slipping on a pair of brass knuckles, the other pulling out a long knife with an eagle head on the hilt, which he spins theatrically.  
  
Shit.  
  
“Now, are you going to come quietly, or are we going to have to make you scream?” The thug with the brass knuckles drawls.  
  
“Dude!” The thug with the knife punches him in the arm. “Phrasing!”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Didn’t you read the briefing? She’s 15!”  
  
Knuckles winces. “Ah, sorry. That was un-called for.” He scratches his head sheepishly. “I’m not like that, I promise. Only violence, no sexual assault of a minor.” He points at you. “Now, are you going to come and meet the boss, or am I going to have to beat you? With my fists.”  
  
Crusader groans, rubbing his temples with a squeal of metal.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MAY CONTAIN NAZIS, READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED
> 
> Rolls for Taylor's abilities are in curly brackets {}

  
  
  
  
{History(Brockton Bay) 11+4=15}  
Your eyes dart from the thugs brandishing weapons to the spectral knights leveling spears at you, and a niggling sensation at the back of your mind bursts into a fully-fledged idea. There’s no way this doesn’t violate the Unwritten Rules you heard about on PHO, and it didn’t end so well the last time the Empire targeted an open cape. “So, you’re going to try and forcibly recruit someone who hates you and your organization? I mean, you know that my last name is French, right? And I just told you that my grandpa fought Nazis in Europe.”  
  
“Yeah, well, so did mine, and that was just ‘cause of all the fucking propaganda.” The thug wielding the eagle-hilted knife retorts. Eagleknife flashes the hilt of his dagger at you, and you see that it is, in fact, set with a tiny swastika. “Figured I’d put some of his war loot back to its intended purpose.” Your dad rumbles with suppressed anger – you’d never met your grandfather, he died before you were born, but Dad respected him a lot.  
  
“And you realize that the last time the Empire targeted a cape with an open identity, it ended really badly for the schmucks who pulled the trigger.” You smirk, watching the thugs’ eyes. “Didn’t Kaiser execute the guy who brought down Fleur?” {Persuasion 13+4=17}  
  
The pair of thugs falter a bit, glancing at each other. “That… That was different.”  
  
“Was it?” You snap. “You’re on the inside, you can’t tell me that they didn’t celebrate putting a hero down… But Kaiser had to save face, didn’t he?”  
  
Eagleknife’s blade dips, a bit. “Shit.” He whispers. Bingo.  
  
“You heard your boss. Kaiser wants to recruit me.” You spread your arms, late afternoon winter sun glinting off your glossy red skin. “Forcibly recruiting an open parahuman at knifepoint? What do you think happens to you, if it gets out that the Empire flaunted the Rules again?”  
  
Knuckles looks at Eagleknife, and then back to Crusader. “Ah…”  
  
“What you’re forgetting, Candyland kike, is that you don’t have New Wave backing you up.” Crusader drawls, waving his ghosts forward. As the specters slowly drift towards you, he continues. “And the most important thing to remember is that your dear old pops has defied the Empire too many times already. Letting all those niggers, beaners, and chinks keep taking honest Americans’ jobs with his bullshit union. He’s already fair game, and you’re a nobody.” With a creak of metal on metal, he carefully looks at both of his stooges. “But fair’s fair. If either of you boys wants to sit this out because you let some little candy-ass bitch psych you out…”  
  
Eagleknife meets your eyes for a long moment, then scoffs, sheathing his knife. “Hell, it’s not like you need me anyway.” He steps back, leaning on the hood of your dad’s truck.  
  
“Pussy.” Knuckles grunts, but he’s definitely less eager to come after you now.  
  
“You and I will be having… words… later, Gerald.” Crusader rumbles menacingly, but he turns back to you. “You’re not gonna get me to back down.”  
  
Your pulse pounds loudly in your ears, and you’re acutely aware of your Dad tensing at your side. Crusader’s specters float menacingly towards you, brandishing their long spears, and you feel your heart begin to race… but then the steady count of light, the pulsing metronome of the Bulb’s light begins to fill you, and you steady, your heartbeat slowing to match the pulse, one beat per second, giving you a sense of preternatural calm.  
  
You raise one hand, palm extended, fingers splayed, lips forming into words you had only read earlier that morning. “Those who have hearts that dwell in darkness cannot stand before the light of The Bulb.”  
  
“The fuck?” Crusader has time to spit, before a glowing bowling-ball sized jawbreaker forms before your outstretched palm and hurtles at him in a spiral of warm light. The massive orb impacted the torso of his armor with a resounding thud and squeal of tortured metal, sending him staggering a step backward, bracing himself on his spear for a moment. {Eldritch Blast: 19+6=25, 1d10=8 damage}  
  
With a wheeze, he waves his specters forwards, and they float towards you, far faster than you would like. You backpedal, watching as your dad lunges forward, diving _through_ one of the ghost’s armored torso, only to be caught across the ankles by the butt of the other one’s spear, sending him toppling to the ground. As the one that he dove through spins in mid-air, raising its spear, you yank the amulet off your neck and shriek “The Bulb shines upon all!” {Spectral Image Dex saving throw: 7+2=9, failed. 1d8=3x2= 6 damage}  
  
For a heartbeat, the amulet flares with warm yellow light, before a column of blinding radiance sixty feet tall descends on the ghost, subsiding to leave it flickering and visibly weakened, but still present.  
  
“Oh,” Crusader coughs, a dribble of blood trickling out of his helmet. “Looks like you ain’t just a candy kike. You got some surprises up your sleeves.” He lifts the visor, just enough to see a pair of bloody lips, and spits out a glob of bloody saliva. You raise your hand, still wielding the Amulet of the Bulb, and with a push of your magic, it flares as bright as the sun. “Fucking bitch!” Crusader swears as he covers his eyes with the back of one hand.  
  
You shift your aim, and Knuckles squints, before lunging for you in a flying tackle, arms flailing wildly. He misses you, barely, as you stumble sideways, hitting the fence with a loud clatter. “Dad, let’s _GO!_ ” You bellow, darting beside him and helping him to his feet. Brandishing the glowing amulet at Eagleknife, still leaning against the truck, although his eyes are wide and his knuckles white around the hilt of his knife. You twitch your fingers and mutter under your breath, and a high-pitched whine begins to sound. “Get out of the fucking way!” You snarl. {Intimidate 7+4=11}  
  
Gerald’s eyes widen, then a wicked grin crosses his face as he takes a step forward. “Rookie mistake.” He drawls, and you spin, only to be knocked prone by a heavy blow to the ribs from one of the Crusader ghost’s spear butts. {Dex saving throw 3+2=5; 1d10 = 5 damage}  
  
You can feel one of your ribs snapping, sending white-hot flares of pain through your torso. All you can do is keen in agony, clutching at your side. Danny bellows in rage, and swings at the ghost, only for his blow to whiff through it like smoke, but he takes the momentum and slams his fist into the side of Knuckle’s ear, making the thug squeal. With a whisper, you call down light upon the ghost that hit you, and the column of brilliant light flares into existence again, dispelling the translucent copy like vapor. {Spectral Image Dex saving throw: 11+2=13, failed. 1d8=8x2=16 damage}  
  
With a snarl and the prayer of the desperate soul - “Dear God, please let this work!” - you tug at the threads of light within you and feel a faint surge of warm, comforting light pool around your wounded ribs. For a moment, the serenity of the Bulb flows through you, and though you still ache, you feel slightly better. {Healing Light 1d6=1}  
  
Crusader stomps over to you. From your vantage on the ground, you see he’s wearing combat boots, which vaguely offends your sensibilities. They don’t match his plate armor, it’s anachronistic! “Guess you found your place, bitch. On the ground, before your betters.” He sneers, and stoops down to grab your upper arm in one hand. You spit at his helmet and practically shove the amulet in his face, making him reel backward from the dazzling glow.  
  
“Fuck you, you Nazi bastard.” You growl, and with a thrust of your other arm, you hurl another spectral jawbreaker at his helmet. The magical candy rings like a bell when it impacts his steel helm, knocking him off his feet, arms and legs twitching spasmodically. {Eldritch Blast (advantage) 5, 20. Crit! 2d10=13} The last ghost disappears, and you hear a thud behind you, followed by a grunt of pain. Out of the corner of your eye, you see your dad pinning Knuckles to the ground, a knee in his back.  
  
Directing your attention back to the Nazi in front of you, you freeze as you stare down the barrel of a large semi-automatic pistol. “Do you have any idea what you’ve fucking done?”  
  
Slowly rising to your feet, you carefully hold your hands at your sides, turning to glance at Crusader. His helmet is visibly crumpled, and blood is seeping out onto the pavement. Shit shit shit shit fucking SHIT! You manage to keep composed and turn back to the Nazi. “Did your grandpa proud?” The words fall out of your mouth like rain, and you see his face contort with rage, watch him level his gun between your eyes. No. Not like this.  
  
There’s a sharp crack, louder than you thought possible, and you flinch, eyes shutting on instinct, only to hear the man in front of you scream in agony. Your eyes pop open, and you see him drop to his knees, clutching his side as blood pours out, staining his leather jacket. Spinning, you see your father, a shining steel revolver, barrel smoking, held steady as a rock as he kneels on the back of its original owner. “Don’t you dare hurt my daughter, you sonova bitch.” A shift in aim, a second ear-splitting retort, and the howls go silent.  
  
  
  
It’s only seconds later that you hear the distinctive sirens of PRT vans and the roar of a motorcycle approaching from the distance. Dad carefully places the gun on the ground. “Taylor, I love you. You did just fine. We’re safe.” He murmurs, still kneeling on the back of the Neo-Nazi. Your eyes drift to the corpses in front of you. You feel… calm. The pulse of The Bulb still beats within your chest, and while part of you longs to panic, or hyperventilate, or even throw up – shattered heads and brains are disgusting – you can feel the soothing light of your patron steadying you. The Bulb does not judge. It only reveals what is in dark places.  
  
You calmly clasp the amulet around your neck again and let the light dim to a calm glow. It clashes horribly with your hoodie. Taking a deep breath, and feeling the ache in your ribs, you let the light of the Bulb flow through you. {Healing Light 1d6=6} It should hurt, feeling your ribs shift back into place and fuse, but there is no pain, only calm acceptance.  
  
A brilliant blue and chrome motorcycle skids into the lot, and you have to dive a bit deeper into the serenity of The Bulb to keep from squealing as Armsmaster vaults off his signature bike, halberd appearing in a flash of blue light in his hand. He takes in the situation at a glance, and without a second glance at you, strides over to kneel beside Crusader’s crumpled body. Gingerly turning the helmeted head, Armsmaster’s lips purse, before he turns to you. “Taylor Hebert.” The hero’s voice comes out flat and clipped. “Miss Militia reported earlier that your power appeared to have no offensive capabilities”  
  
“I wasn’t aware of any at the time.” You reply softly. “I only discovered them minutes before these… nazis attacked us.”  
  
“Convenient,” Armsmaster says, his tone ambivalent and doubting enough to leave you bristling indignantly. He looks down at the corpse at his feet. “Some kind of Blaster ability? Projected force or hard light?”  
  
You stay silent.  
  
“Self defense isn’t a crime.” The armored hero says, standing up and regarding you cooly, before taking a step forward, lowering his voice. “But if it becomes known that you resorted to lethal force, even before your debut…” He phrases it like it’s inevitable that you will put on a costume and go try to punch _someone_ in the face. “It makes villains more willing to escalate in kind.”  
  
“He was trying to kidnap me. Take me to Kaiser. They were going to take Dad, too.” The calm is slowly slipping through your fingers. Oh _Bulb_ you killed somebody! Your pulse starts accelerating, and you can feel your palms start to get sticky from sugary sweat. “I… I was scared…”  
  
Armsmaster stares at you for a long moment, then gives you a curt nod, before turning to your father. “You left the safehouse without advising the security detail of where you were going. That cost you critical minutes, at the very least, or it could have meant that this could have been avoided entirely.”  
  
A mulish expression crosses Dad’s face, before vanishing as he slumps. “It… It was supposed to be private. Family business.” There’s a muffled groan from Knuckles, still pinned under Dad’s knees, and he looks down, almost surprised, before gingerly getting to his feet. Armsmaster extrudes a set of plastic restraints that rapidly set around the thug’s wrists, before roughly pulling him to his feet.  
  
“Regardless, the protection detail is there to protect you and your daughter from situations like this.” Armsmaster lets out a frustrated breath, before turning to you. {Perception 18+2=20} You could swear from the tilt of his visor that his eyes drop down to your faintly glowing amulet, and his jaw tenses, almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t seem fond of glowing necklaces, you think. “Given your newly discovered powers, I would recommend at least some formal testing, at least for our records. And since there have already been threats made against you by a major gang… The Wards program would help give you the tools to protect yourself and learn about your abilities.”  
  
“We’ll think about it.” Dad cuts you off.  
  
With a squeal of tires and howl of a siren, a PRT troop transport van comes barreling into the parking lot and spins into a parking space, before its rear doors slam open and a squad of heavily armored troopers pours out.  
  
“You’ll have some time to consider while making your formal statements,” Armsmaster says dryly.


	4. Chapter 4

Letting your thick strands of licorice hair fall in front of your face, you study your hands, twisting your fingers together in meaningless taps and fidgets, watching the light glint off your glossy black nails. You’re sitting in a comfortable plush armchair, one that’s been battered and reupholstered and repaired, the faint smell of fabric softener and beef jerky permeating the air around you. You glance up at the man across from you, then back down at your hands. Your new therapist is the single hairiest man that you’ve ever met, and it’s more than a little offputting.  
  
Sure he’s well-groomed, his long mane of thick, dark brown hair combed neatly back into a ponytail, but his glossy, meticulously combed and trimmed beard and mustache obscure all but a faint sliver of a smile and kind grey eyes. He’s got thick bristles of hair covering most of his bare hands, peeking through the collar of his black teeshirt under the long brown cardigan, and hair obscures his feet badly enough that you initially thought he was wearing tacky fur boots until you saw the leather thongs of the flipflops. Honestly, he looks like a Hollywood wolfman. Right now, he’s just sitting in an armchair that, while equally plush and comfortable, doesn’t otherwise match your current seat in the slightest, one leg crossed over the other, hairy fingers neatly meshed together as he watches you calmly.  
  
It’s been ten minutes, and neither of you has said a word. Finally, the hirsute man grins broadly. “I know what you’re thinking.” His voice is a bit hoarse, but low and warm. “Who the hell is this hairy motherfucker my dad left me alone with?”  
  
You can’t suppress the squeak of laughter that erupts, and you finally look up and meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t have put it quite that way.”  
  
The therapist grins toothily. “So, m’name’s Walter O’Shaugnessey, but I go by Jawbone.” He uncrosses his legs and leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. “I’ve been a licensed mental health therapist for about four years now, after I got out of rehab and the hoosegow.”  
  
“You were in prison?”  
  
“Hell yeah.” Jawbone – and the name fits the hairy man far better than either of his given names – nods amicably. “Went through a rough patch, got away with a lot of shit as I tore my life apart around me, until I had a wakeup call and got the help I needed to put my life together.” He spread his hands. “Thought I should spread the love.” His cardigan splits open, and you can finally read the words on his black t-shirt. **Let’s fuckin’ fix kids!**  
  
“So, how do you think we should fix what’s wrong with me?” You ask, gesturing at yourself.  
  
“No, you’re thinking about it the wrong way round, man.” Jawbone grins. “You can’t just start trying to paper over the cracks, you gotta figure out why the cracks got there in the first place.”  
  
…  
  
“Honestly, it sounds like those bitches were jealous.” Jawbone comments, half an hour later. He’s shed his cardigan, and the hair on his arms is just as thick as it is on the rest of his body. “You said you look about the same as you did before, just a different color, and if you’re right, I can guarandamntee you that they saw a _threat_ to their social standing, and were trying to keep you down.”  
  
You hunch in on yourself a little more. “That doesn’t feel right.”  
  
“Dude, look at me!” Jawbone gestures at himself wryly. “I’ve looked like the fuckin’ Wolf Man since I was born! Some rare disease, or whatever.” He pulls a polaroid out of a lamp-stand beside his chair and flicks it over to you. You turn it over to see an absolutely horrifyingly hairy baby in a yellow onesie, waving a rubber moon at the camera. “So trust me when I tell you that kids can be cruel.” He loses his smile. “I tried being the cool kid. Turned into a real party animal, let me tell ya. Drugs, booze, sex. Got a real reputation, had a lot of fun. I could tell you a lot of stories, but I was just covering up the pain, letting the party get control of me.” Jawbone glances at the clock on the wall. “But we’re running short on time, and I gotta tell you the moral, and then we’ll get to the stories later.”  
  
He leans forward, meets your eyes. “Taylor, you listening? I want you to pay attention. Fuckin’ take this in, internalize this shit.” You nod. “Here it is: Hurt people hurt people. And that’s _not your fault_.” He leans back in his chair. “I don’t know what the hell happened to your friend or the other girls, but I can tell, just from what you told me, that she was hurting, and hurting bad.” The words hit you like a brick, and you must have reacted since Jawbone continued. “Now, don’t feel bad or blame yourself, cause you can’t blame yourself for what others do to you.”  
  
“She was my best friend. I should have seen…”  
  
“You were dealing with your own shit, and sometimes that’s all you can do, is deal with your own shit first, before you can worry about anyone else’s shit.” Jawbone grins widely. “Like the time my dealer got pissy with me since I shorted him a twenty a coupl’a times too many, and laced my next bag of hash brownies with laxative powder. Man, those brownies went through the party like a horny elephant through a paper cutout of rhino ass, but all we could do is laugh it off and clean up our shit.” He snickers a bit at your expression. “And I fucking paid him every dime for every dime after that.”  
  
“So… Deal with your own shit, don’t make other people deal with yours, and don’t give shit to people who don’t deserve it?” You summarize.  
  
“Fucking. Nailed it. But don’t be afraid to ask for help, cause sometimes there’s too much shit to deal with on your own. There’s no shame in that.” Jawbone claps his hands. “Anyway, I think I heard your dad get back, so I got a little assignment for ya, candy crusher.” The hairy therapist clasps his hands together, pointing his index fingers at you. “I want you to think about things you like about yourself. Write ‘em down. Be honest. Doesn’t have to be big things. I don’t need to see them, you can burn the paper for all I care afterward, but writing that stuff down helps lock it in a bit. You’re a good kid. A good person. Tough as hell, and I really think that I can help you help yourself.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll do that.” You agree with a nod. Jawbone has a very personable air to him that you can’t help but like. He’s easy to open up to.  
  
Jawbone gets out of his chair, stepping closer to squat by your chair, resting easily on the balls of his feet, forearms propped on his knees. “Hey, I know we didn’t really get into some of the shit that’s been happening a little more recently." He watches your expression for a moment, then nods slightly to himself. "Your dad has my number. You ever feel like you need to talk, even at weird times, then call me, yeah? I'll make the time for you, and we'll take things one step at a time."  
  
"Thanks." You murmur.  
  
Your father cracks open the door to the office, and Jawbone stands up easily, giving him a broad grin, before clasping his hand in a firm shake. “Danny, my man! You didn’t tell me your daughter was such a tough cookie!”  
  
“I..” Dad ducks his head a little. “I don’t think I realized until recently. I haven’t been the father I needed to be.”  
  
Jawbone pulls your father to him and gives him a rough hug. “And it’s good that you realize that. Don’t let your fuckups weigh you down, man, you pile that shit up and you clamber up on top and _use_ them to lift yourself up.” He pulls away. “I got your back, man. When you’re ready, I’d be happy to talk to you too.” He pats your dad’s shoulder a couple of times, then turns back to you. “Same time next week, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah, I think I’d like that.” You reply, and after Jawbone has a quick muttered negotiation with your father that leaves him with less money for the session than your dad initially tried to pay him, you’re back in your father’s comfortable truck, making your way through the winding streets in one of the less affluent portions of Brockton Bay.  
  
“Did you like him?” Dad asks eventually.  
  
“Yeah, he’s… something. He seems to care.”  
  
“I knew Jawbone in High School.” Your father muses. “It’s funny how much he’s changed, but how much he’s stayed the same.”  
  
“Huh.” You mutter. “Just as hairy?”  
  
“So damn hairy.” Danny chuckles. “Better groomed now, though.”  
  
“Thank goodness, I’d hate to see him on a bad hair day.” As your father chuckles along with your joke, you glance down at yourself again. You’re wearing some of the first results of your mother’s loom and Candian sewing gear, a simple loose peasant blouse in a pale cream color, woven out of cotton candy, and tight wine-colored leggings that you had made from huge sheets of flexible dried fruit juice, which set into a leather-like material, thicker and coarser than the Fruit Rollups you used to eat, but still felt so much better on your skin than anything else in your wardrobe. The recipes in your mother’s books had resulted in a material that is almost as tough as cow’s leather, and while you did have to do some experimentation to adapt things for the materials you had at hand, some perusals of the cookbooks that your father retrieved from your home revealed notes and modifications of many recipes that lent more flexibility and strength to your sugar-based clothing.  
  
“Dad, can we go to the shop again? I think I want to work on some more outfits.”  
  
“Absolutely,” Dad replies, and it’s not long before you find yourself at an old Mexican restaurant, long boarded up and abandoned. It had been posted for sale long ago, but never actually purchased until it defaulted to the city, and so Dad had been able to snap it up for a fraction of the former asking price to function as a workshop for you, using your college fund. It’s not somewhere you want to open as a business location – it’s rather poorly located, tucked away under an overpass, right on the outskirts of Merchant territory, but it does have a rather large kitchen area, and the boarded-up windows let you set up the loom, as well as other tools for sewing and weaving.  
  
Parking a block away in a secure lot, your father hooks a long crowbar into his belt, while you pull a hoodie over your head and tuck away your long licorice locks, before carefully conjuring the best illusionary copy of your old face you could manage and pressing it to your face. Your little utility spell can manage a whole host of little effects – although the most useful you have found is being able to instantly clean up to a cubic foot of material at a time – and being able to near-instantly create a mask, somewhere between reality and illusion, is just barely within its capabilities.  
  
“I wish we didn’t have to look like we were breaking into the property we’re renting.” Danny groans, but together you make your way through abandoned streets to the back of the restaurant, before letting yourselves in.  
  
Inside, every surface is sparkling clean, courtesy of your little spell, and after Dad makes sure the back door is shut securely, you flip on the lights in the kitchen and start casting the other useful spell granted you by The Bulb. You’ve nicknamed this one Unseen Servant, because it creates a little invisible force that acts as an assistant, doing whatever menial tasks you ask it to do, albeit nothing too complex. Since it seems to have the same level of knowledge and skill that you do, this essentially doubles your ability to work, and you set it to pulling at a ring of solid sugar, gradually doubling the loop over and over and expanding it into hair-thin threads of cotton candy. Something has been nagging at the back of your mind for a while, though. “Dad, do you think you can get me a license for the Boardwalk. To open a stand there, I mean?”  
  
Dad looks up from where he’s going over paperwork at a little side table. “You’re wanting to sell candy clothing?” He asks.  
  
“Well, no, but…” You sigh a bit, grabbing a basket of mixed fruit – mostly apples and pears that your father was able to get in bulk from a local grocery store- and sitting down to start coring them. “I was thinking about the candy that Mom used to make. How we always said she could sell it, but she only wanted to make for us.” You look down at your pot of simmering fruit juice and pulp. “Would it be wrong that I want to sell candy that I make, using her recipes?”  
  
Dad sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Is that what you really want? I mean…” He gestures at you. “You do have those powers. I know we pushed back against the offer to join the Wards, but, don’t you want to… use your powers?”  
  
You gesture at the ring of sugar noodles being worked by an invisible force behind you. “Yeah, and I’m using them. I…” Resisting the urge to bite your lip, you stare at the bruised apple you’re coring. “I can get more powers. Been waiting, honestly. I could get more ever since that night.”  
  
“More powers.” Your dad says softly. “So, you get more by fighting?”  
  
“Maybe. Maybe it’s just through getting closer to The Bulb.” Your dad makes a face but doesn’t say anything further.  
  
You work in silence for a long time, finally setting a massive pot of chopped fruit on the stove to cook down, and taking the neatly looped bundle of hand-stretched cotton candy from your Unseen Servant as it starts on the second batch of the night. “I don’t really want to fight, Dad.”  
  
“You could heal, a bit.”  
  
You make a face. “Once, and then I have to take a nap or read a book for an hour. It’s not something I can really use in the hospital. I’m no Panacea.” “I like this. Making things with my hands and magic that people can enjoy.”  
  
Dad lets out a short breath of laughter. “My daughter is saying she doesn’t want to fight, and all I’m thinking of are the pamphlets that say that parahumans seem to be drawn to trouble.” He mutters, just loud enough for you to hear him. “Yes, I’ll help you fill out a grant request through the DPW. Ms. McAdams said that those were available.” He glances over at you. “You’re under 18, so you can only operate in limited hours. Not during school hours, at least.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.” Right now, you were doing remote classwork for Clarendon, which was hardly a challenge, and you were considering getting a GED, if only to avoid having to go to school as a candy person.  
  
“Okay.” Dad grins at me. “My daughter the entrepreneur.”  
  
The only thing you can do in response is to roll your eyes.  
  
After an hour or so of work, you catch the last batch of cotton candy as it drops out of the control of the Unseen Servant, before carefully sealing it in a lightweight plastic bag as the presence of the servant vanishes. It’s in the early evening, and after sliding sheet after sheet of brown fruit paste into the desiccating ovens that the restaurant formerly used to dry peppers for their homemade spices, you and your father make your way to the little apartment that you call home, at least for the moment.  
  
After a quick supper and a note in a journal for Jawbone, where you reluctantly scribble that you are good at cooking, you find yourself pouring over the book of The Bulb your mother left for you. She never was religious, in any way you could easily define. Maybe she felt… separated… from The Bulb. She certainly never professed faith in any religion, but never really denied it either. Your father took you to the occasional holiday service, but that was more out of tradition than anything else. There wasn’t really any faith in your household, because there wasn’t truly anything to Believe… And yet, you _know_ that The Bulb is real. You have a connection to it, feel the constant faint presence of it in the back of your mind, draw on it to power your spells.  
  
You read of miracle workers of foreign lands, of Saint Celerea, who first brought the teachings of The Bulb to the Candians in centuries long past, who was persecuted and finally boiled alive in hot molasses, but never raised a hand in anger, but rather cured anyone she met of their wounds. Of Saint Citrina, who delved so deeply into the light of The Bulb that none who held the book she studied could utter falsehoods. Of Paladin Lasagnati of Bolognese, a mighty warrior who called on the light of The Bulb to shatter the pasta chains he had been born into and overturn a network of slavers channeling Panerans and Fructerans to the savage Meatlands. You read of the fall of the Bulbian church into hypocrisy and lies, culminating in the reign of Pontifex Brassica the Wicked, until Saint Wilhelmina revealed the truth of The Bulb once more. That it is a Power that can be used for many things, but that in the end, The Bulb speaks to no one. The Bulb only grants power, and it is up to the wielder what they do with its light.  
  
You cross your legs, and slip into meditation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, rolls are in curly brackets {}

“Taylor, it’s time to go!” Dad calls, his voice echoing through the small apartment that had become something closer to a home, these past few weeks. You still ache for the house you grew up in, but according to Mrs. McAdams, the PRT had already deflected at least three attempts by the Empire to sabotage it, although none by any of their capes. Likely since it was obviously empty. They were fairly confident that your current residence is unknown. Your new ability was likely a contributing factor in that.  
  
“Out in a minute, Dad!” You yell from the bathroom, before meeting your own eyes. The faint inklings of discomfort in your new Candian body have all but disappeared. You feel right, for the first time in a very long time. So isn’t it just ironic how The Bulb has allowed you to tap into its light and disguise yourself? You purse licorice lips, then hold up both hands, cupping them together, lips shaping into a brief prayer, a ritual that slipped into your mind when you deepened your connection to your patron – your god, you have to admit now. “Bulb, may you mask me, conceal me from my foes, that I may shine brighter when the door is opened.” A warm, golden glow grows between your cupped fingers, and ethereal strands of spun sugar emerge from your fingertips, spinning into a complex fractal net that slowly solidifies into an expressionless wireframe mask. Each golden strand is translucent, yet rigid, like solid, sweet-smelling light, the pattern shifting and changing from heartbeat to heartbeat.  
  
You lift the mask to your face and feel it cling to your skin, before vanishing in a flash of warm Bulb-light. As the glow subsides, your old face stares back at you from the mirror. Slipping your glasses on over skin that seems pale and insubstantial now, you try to smile to yourself. The response in the mirror is a fraction of a second slow. It is, as best you can tell, a perfect reflection of yourself, as you were before The Locker. When you were at your lowest.  
  
True, you could be other people, that was no problem. The Mask had let you imitate anyone you had ever seen or pictured, from Armsmaster himself, clad in his resplendent blue armor, to Aunt Zoe as you remembered her last, years ago, before Emma betrayed you. It even changed your voice to match your target, but… You blink twice, deliberately, and once again, your reflection is a fraction of a second off. The illusion isn’t perfect. It doesn’t match your movements instantly, and although it’s visually perfect, and you can wear or be anyone, it’s as insubstantial as light itself. Shadows don’t land right, and any props that you conjure are merely illusions and cannot be touched. Your expressions frequently don’t map quite correctly to other people’s faces, looking odd or exaggerated.  
  
In the end, it’s least dangerous to use it to mimic your old self. You’re still nearly entirely the same shape, and weeks of weaving and crafting had resulted in a wardrobe of brightly colored, yet comfortable candy clothes that you could recolor with the illusion. It’s the beginning of March, now, and the weather is going through a sudden cold snap after a relatively mild winter. In response, you had made a huge, wine-red fruit leather coat, lined with layer after layer of thick candy fleece, padded and stitched together until it’s practically armor. The coat dangles just above your knees, and when you button up the thick peppermint buttons, you’re nearly impervious to the cold. You leave the bathroom, and make your way to the door, grabbing the coat from a coat rack and pulling it on.  
  
“I’m ready.” Your dad glances at you. {Insight: 9+2=11}. He’s got the same unreadable expression he always does when you wear your old face around him.  
  
“Are you sure about this, Taylor?” He asks. You meet your father’s eyes. Care and concern are there, true, but the hint of doubt…  
  
“I’m not going to let the Empire cow me, Dad.” You reply. “Making myself known and being a public figure – no, a fixture, someone the city can be proud of – will keep them from just making me disappear.” There had been threats and grumblings from the neo-nazi gang over the past several weeks. Kaiser had made a statement. There had even been a memorial rally that was swiftly broken up by the BBPD with PRT support.  
  
Dad’s mouth twists into a resigned grimace. “I know. This is the best way I can think of, if you don’t want to be a fighter.” He shakes his head, and you look him over. He’s wearing his best suit, the one he wore for important negotiations. You’re in more casual clothing, but… You grab the garment bag draped carefully over the back of the armchair.  
  
“Time to go, Dad.”  
  
Your father nods jerkily, and without another word, you leave the apartment and head down to your father’s truck. A short trip to your workshop later, and by 9:45, you are pushing a refurbished hand cart down a short alleyway between two small bespoke shops on the Boardwalk, heading to Brockton Bay’s answer to the question of ‘How do we keep getting sweet, sweet taxes and tourism dollars during New England winters?’ On either side of the broad street stand a set of semi-permanent windbreaks and canopies, with electric heaters and fans set every few feet to raise the temperature from bitterly cold to fairly chilly. This, combined with cape tourism, allowed Brockton Bay to stay at least somewhat busy year-round. It had taken more money than you were comfortable thinking about, but after crunching the numbers, you were able to lease a short section of the pavilion where you could park your cart.  
  
Stopping at the gate that obscured the alley from view from the Boardwalk proper, you take a moment to give your father a fierce hug, before stepping back, and releasing the mask, letting your true self come into view with a flash of light and a vanishing scent of caramel. You unbutton your wine-red coat, revealing a cream-colored cotton candy vest, embroidered with interlocking spiraling patterns of honey-yellow candy wires. Underneath, you have a plum-colored sugar-silk blouse and comfortably snug pants, the same shade as your coat. Striking, surprisingly durable, obviously a costume, while still comfortable and stylish. Tossing your licorice hair over your shoulders and tying it back in a neat ponytail, you set your expression in a polite smile that you practiced in the mirror for hours, and open the gate, pulling the cart behind you.  
  
There are a fair number of people out, bundled in their coats and sweaters, but still browsing stands with home-made trinkets, officially licensed cape memorabilia, hand-crafted jewelry, and more. The scent of sizzling bacon from a food truck selling breakfast sandwiches wafts down the street, but when you step out, you can feel every eye turn towards you. {Performance: 19+4=23} You square your shoulders, feel your smile slip into something more comfortable and natural, and confidently push your two-wheeled cart down the street to your assigned booth. Eyes follow you down the street, and by the time you move the white cart into position, lock the wheels, and pull open the trays of clear candy bees, their tiny crystalline abdomens filled with a drop of honey-flavored syrup, along with handmade cotton candy, candy cane trees, chocolate knight helmets, and many more, you already have a throng of interested customers.  
  
With a smile and the touch of a finger, the clear sugar bulb at the top of a candy-cane-striped pole at the end of your cart bursts into warm light, and you turn to the crowd. “Hi! My name is Saccharine, and welcome to Sweetlight Delights! What can I get for you?”  
  
It takes less than an hour for you to sell out of the sugar bees, and only thirty minutes later, you have to conjure an Unseen Servant to help make more hand-made cotton candy – which only acts as a further draw for customers, because candy stretching and spinning itself in mid-air is more than a bit spectacular. By noon, you are seriously considering closing up in a couple of hours, if only to re-stock.  
  
“Wow, these are fantastic!” A blonde girl, a couple of years older than you with shoulder-length hair and freckles spattered across her nose and cheeks exclaims as she bites into a link of a golden apple-flavored chain. “This doesn’t taste anything like most ‘apple’ candies.” {Insight:12+2=14} She does seem interested, but… You get the feeling that she’s not just interested in the candy. Her eyes keep darting over you, in a way that is a little sharper than most of the curiosity that you’ve seen so far. More inquisitive.  
  
“It’s because I make it from scratch, so it’s actually got real apples in it.” You reply, taking a thin roll of paper and twirling it through the wisps of cotton candy held by your Unseen servant, before handing it to a young boy and his mother. “I made all of this from scratch, actually.”  
  
“Yeah, I can see.” The blonde replies, watching the remaining wisps of candy spiral onto a stick before your Unseen Servant opens a compartment and pulls out another ring of candy, ready to be stretched. “Never knew that you could make cotton candy by hand.”  
  
“It was my mother’s recipe.” You reply absently, looking over your stock. Yeah, you’re going to need to make a lot more, you just were not anticipating this much interest in your shop. Looking back up at the blonde, you smile and glance pointedly at the line forming behind her. “Did you want anything else?”  
  
She meets your eyes and smirks, green eyes twinkling. “Nah, just curious.” {Insight: 9+2=11} As she saunters off, you get the urge to check your cash register, like you had come up a little short in that conversation, although you can’t figure out why. Handing out candy to the gaggle of teenagers enjoying a weekend away from Arcadia drives the brief encounter out of your mind.  
  
You sell your last piece of candy before two, with stock that you had estimated would last at least twice as long, and turn off the light on your stand before closing the lid on the cart. Turning around, you find yourself eyes to chest with a spandex-covered chest with a black V printed on it in a pair of intersecting racing stripes. Yelping awkwardly, you take a step backward, only to see the cape flicker back as well. “Whoops, sorry.” Velocity says, scratching his head awkwardly. “Did you run out?”  
  
“Yeah.” You say, catching your breath and pasting your smile back on your face. “I’m sorry about that. I can have a package sent to the Rig, though, if you like.”  
  
“That’s ok, I’ll make it out next time you’re open.” Velocity looks around, his head seeming to snap from position to position without pausing in between. Something about his super-speed? “I just wanted to make sure that everything was ok. No threats, nothing suspicious?”  
  
Your eyes narrow slightly. “No, thank you.” The PRT had been pressing you a bit, recently. Nothing major, and Desmonda being a notable exception, but ever since your encounter with Crusader and subsequent interview – watched over by a lawyer your father knew through the Dockworker’s Union – they had been hinting at coming in for testing. You had checked, and you were not legally obligated to comply, something your caseworker told you with relish, so you had refused.  
  
“Right.” Velocity replies, before giving you a polite salute and vanishing in a blur. You purse your lips, then roll the stand back towards the alley, already making a mental inventory of what to make for tomorrow. Passing by Parian’s shop, you nod politely at the porcelain-masked dressmaker, who nods in return, the silk ballerina dancing outside her shop giving you a curtsy, before returning her attention to her customers. As you push the gate open, you grudgingly pull out your phone, about to call your father on the cheap phone he had gotten for you, when you stop.  
  
Your dad’s truck is parked at the end of the alley. You had agreed that he would go somewhere to wait comfortably until you called, to let him know you were done. “Dad?” You call out. The alley is silent, and you let go of the cart, slipping your hand into your pocket to grab your amulet. “Dad?” You ask again, picking up the pace a bit as you jog for the end of the alley. Nothing there. The truck is empty. You pull out your phone and flip it open, hitting the speed-dial for Danny’s phone. A few seconds later, you jump, as an answering ring comes from inside the truck.  
  
“Oh fuck.” You whisper to yourself, hitting the end call button and yanking open the door of the truck. Your dad’s cheap clamshell phone tumbles out of the vehicle. You bend and pick it off the ground, and on the way up, see that his trusty crowbar is missing.  
  
Shit.  
  
This is BAD.  
  
Your father’s cellphone rings again, and you nearly drop it, before flipping it open. It’s a blocked number, and your trembling finger presses the answer button. “Yes?” You whisper.  
  
“Ah, Miss Hebert.” A smooth, cultured voice comes from the receiver. “Had a profitable day, I trust?”  
  
“Who is this, and where is my dad?” You growl.  
  
“Miss Hebert, self-control is what distinguishes us from the subhumans. I would encourage you to… cultivate some, else you may find you don’t like the results.”  
  
{Perception: 14+2=16} “Kaiser.”  
  
The voice chuckles. “Yes, Miss Hebert. Your father is my guest, and is currently unharmed.” {Insight: 11+2=13} He seems to be telling the truth, but the implication that the ‘currently’ could change at a moment’s notice is strong.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
“Miss Hebert, you have murdered a valued member of my organization, one who was merely… extending you an invitation.” Kaiser’s voice is even, but you get the feeling that he’s playing for an audience, not just speaking with you. “Justice demands blood for blood, but…”  
  
{Persuasion: 3+6=9} “Let my dad go!” You yell into the phone. “You have no idea what I’m capable of!”  
  
Kaiser’s response is flat and cold. “Miss Hebert, you are a candy maker, with a handful of small tricks up her sleeves. You got lucky. Your luck has run out.” There’s the sound of footsteps, then heavy breathing comes through the speaker.  
  
“Taylor?” Your dad’s voice croaks.  
  
“Dad?” You whisper in reply.  
  
There’s the meaty sound of metal chopping through flesh and bone, and your father _screams_  
  
“Come to the warehouse at the intersection of 9th and Moorehead at 8:00 tonight. Come alone. Tell no one.” Kaiser orders. “If you don’t… Your father will lose far more than just a finger.”  
  
The call ends abruptly, the cut-off sobs of your father echoing through the alley.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rolls are in curly brackets {}, as usual.

Dazed, terrified, furious, and filled with an encroaching sense of dread that threatens to overwhelm you, you slowly close the clamshell phone and put it in your pocket. Some tiny part of you wants to hurl it at the wall, but no, you may need it. You grit your teeth, close your eyes, and take a deep breath in through your nose. The alley doesn’t smell bad, precisely, but you ignore the lingering scents of trash and decay fade, focusing inward, letting the steady pulse of The Bulb soothe your anxieties. The Empire will not win. They cannot win. They _shall_ not win. The light of The Bulb will illuminate their sins, and you will **burn them from the face of the earth** before you return to your simple life, your father by your side. You take another deep breath, and open your eyes, externally calm, your placid expression hiding the turmoil in your soul.  
  
Closing the door of your dad’s truck, you glance up and down the narrow side-street, before ducking back into the alley and calling on the Mask. You’re too distinct, you need to find a safe space to plan your next move. A flash of warm Bulb-light later, and you have the appearance of a nondescript brunette in her mid-twenties, bundled in a heavy coat. Unremarkable. You make your way back onto the Boardwalk proper, and glance around for somewhere to go. Public, yet private enough to prevent eavesdroppers. Your eyes fall on Parian’s shop, which is still open, although the doll-masked seamstress is nowhere in sight. A high-end clothing boutique is nowhere nearly as interesting as other shops, at least without the owner demonstrating her powers, so there only appear to be a couple of customers. There is safety in numbers, after all… You had heard rumors that Parian threw out Empire recruiters on a regular basis, so she had no love for the gang. She ought to be willing to help you.  
  
You slip into the tiny shop, weaving between stuffed canvas mannequins wearing elaborate dresses and fancy women’s suits, each one unique, with no price tags in sight. Fat scented candles set on little plinths on each wall fill the air with hints of lavender. The cape herself is perched on a stool facing a large sketch-board, a thin needle trailing red thread orbiting around her as she taps her pencil on the chin of her white ceramic mask. As you slowly approach, the mask turns to regard you, brown eyes peering out from within the eye slots. {Perception: 17+2=19} The holes in her mask are tiny, barely large enough to show her eyes and eyelashes, but from the flash of her eyelids, the shade reminding you of coffee with too much cream, you strongly suspect that beneath her white mask and blonde ringlet wig, Parian is distinctly non-caucasian.  
  
“Can I help you?” The seamstress asks, another needle swooping out from the sleeve of her dress and joining the orbit around her, a strand of black thread flowing behind and weaving into a spiraling helix with the red thread. Her voice has a faint accent, somewhat British, but difficult to pin down.  
  
You gulp and nod briefly. “Yes.” You feel yourself begin to choke up a little and let your emotions show, bubbling up from beneath the surface. “I need help.”  
  
Parian watches you for a moment, then stiffens, the needles stuttering in mid-air for a moment. She turns slightly, not fully looking away from you, to glance at the final customer in the small shop, a middle-aged woman wistfully stroking the fabric of a sleek white gown. “Layla?”  
  
A dark-skinned woman wearing an apron embroidered with Parian’s logo bustles over. “Yes?” She glances at you but doesn’t appear to notice anything unusual.  
  
“Can you close up? I’m going to need a moment.” Parian replies. Layla looks back at you, studying you a little more carefully, before shrugging. In a matter of moments, the store clerk has the last customer hurried out the door, before hooking a plastic chain across the entrance.  
  
“I’ll take my lunch, back in a mo’,” She calls, before ducking under the chain.  
  
Parian folds her hands placidly in front of her, regarding you coolly. In the space of a heartbeat, the needles are hovering in front of your face, inches away from your eyes, and you hear cloth rustling and shuffling behind you. “Now, who are you, and why are you in my shop in disguise?”  
  
Shit, she saw through it! You drop the illusion for a second or two, and Parian relaxes, the needles floating away and tucking themselves into the ruffles of her dress as you hurriedly reform the Mask, muttering the prayer under your breath. Looking back at her, fully disguised again, you duck your head a little. “Sorry. I…” You gulp. “I didn’t want anyone to see me.” You meet Parian’s eyes. “I’m Saccharine. Taylor Hebert.”  
  
Parian glances around her tiny shop, almost panicked. “Your real name?” She leans closer. “What about the Rules?”  
  
You shrug despondently. “Does it matter?” The waves of emotion you’ve been desperately bottling up pour out, and you feel yourself begin to tear up. “The Empire knows who I am anyway. They’ve got my Dad.”  
  
The fury practically explodes off of Parian, fabric rustling around her as a swarm of needles erupts from every fold and cranny of her dress. You take an involuntary step back as the swarm, glittering in the candlelight like a school of fish, splits into fractal patterns, never approaching you, before returning to vanish into their mistress’s dress. Behind you, you hear metal shutters slam down over the windows and doorway. Looking over your shoulder, you see a pair of mannequins in elaborate dresses returning to their plinths. Parian sighs, and you look back at her. “Come on in the back and sit down.” She murmurs, and leads you to a door tucked behind a curtain.  
  
The backroom of Parian’s shop is un-decorated, but bolts of fabric in every color and pattern imaginable are piled up on tables and shelves against every wall. Parian leads you through a maze of cloth to a battered armchair next to a round wooden table, the surface marred with dozens of rings and watermarks. A squat candle sits, flickering merrily, in the middle of the table. As you sit, she sits down opposite you, and a tailed butler uniform, complete with white silk gloves inflates and unhooks itself from a hangar on the wall, before bustling off to an electric kettle set on a nearby cabinet. Parian sits opposite you and inclines her head, the serene doll’s expression on her mask seeming to smile gently. “Ok, tell me what happened.”  
  
You briefly explain the events in the alley, how your father was taken, the words pouring out in a babble that grows more and more incoherent, until you’re sobbing syrupy tears into Parian’s shoulder as she pats your back awkwardly. The butler uniform sets a teacup down with a clink, and you vaguely realize that your disguise has faded entirely. Wiping away your tears on a handkerchief that flutters helpfully by your hand, you look blearily back at Parian. “S-sorry.” {Persuade: 7+6=13}  
  
As she takes another cup of tea from the butler uniform, which hangs itself back on the hangar and deflates into motionlessness, Parian sits down opposite you, staring into the steaming cup for a moment. “Why come to me?”  
  
“Needed somewhere to go. Thought you would help.” You murmur.  
  
“Have you spoken with the PRT?” She asks.  
  
You grimace. “No. They… It doesn’t feel like they’ve helped.” You slump down a little in the plush chair and take a sip of the fragrant tea, before setting it down. It’s far to bitter for your new tastebuds. “And Kaiser said…” You shake your head. “No that’s stupid, of course I can’t do this by myself.”  
  
Parian nods. “Dealing with villains is literally their job.” She says, a hint of acidity in her tone. “I’m independent, I don’t want to be a hero or villain.”  
  
“I don’t either!” You reply sharply. “And they kidnapped my fucking dad because I didn’t have the luxury of hiding behind a mask until it was too late.” Wincing at the unintended venom, you stare down at your hands. Fabric rustles, and there’s a clink as Parian’s mask is set delicately on the table. You look up and see her face. Her skin is darker than you expected, actually, her eyelids lightened by makeup, with a strong nose and full lips. She’s middle-eastern, you think.  
  
“I’m sorry, Taylor.” She says softly. “My name is Sabah.”  
  
“It’s ok. You…. You didn’t have to…” You look down at your hands again, your black nails digging into red licorice flesh, making your skin flush crimson and pale pink. “’m sorry.” You murmur.  
  
“You’ve had a bad experience,” Sabah replies gently, but firmly. “Now, you need to call the PRT.”  
  
You nod, and pull out your phone, flipping it open. You press the emergency call button, and after only a couple of dials, a male voice answers curtly. “PRT Hotline, what is your emergency?”  
  
“This is Saccharine. My dad was taken by the Empire 88.” You manage to keep your voice calm and level.  
  
The dispatcher swears softly under his breath. “Shit. Are you safe?”  
  
“Yes, I’m hidden at Parian’s shop on the Boardwalk, I wasn’t there when it happened.” You take a moment to steel yourself. “Kaiser called me on my Dad’s phone. He told me to meet them somewhere. Said to come alone.”  
  
“Ok, I have tracking active on your phone now. Assault and Battery are on their way, they’ll be there soon.” Parian nods, slipping her mask back on. A silk ribbon weaves into a neat cursive script, hanging in mid-air. _Back Door_  
  
“Tell them to come to the back of Parian’s shop. She let me stay in the back room.”  
  
“I’ll pass it on. Stay on the line, the heroes will be there in five minutes.”  
  
Four minutes and thirty seconds later, there’s a sharp knock on the back door, which leads into another narrow alley off the Boardwalk. Parian bustles over, pulling open the heavy door, and letting Assault in. He’s tall, and quite fit, his red body armor fitting closely over his muscular frame. Beneath a tinted visor, he gives you a comforting smile. “Hey, Taylor.”  
  
You give him a weak nod in return. “Assault.” He’s one of the Protectorate capes you actually like - Charismatic, never pressuring you into getting closer to the organization, and always ready with a joke. You close your eyes for a moment. “They took my Dad.”  
  
“We’re gonna get him back.” His voice is steady, and he sounds utterly confident.  
  
You glance at Parian, and she meets your eyes, “Parian… Can… Would you come with me?”  
  
“You just met me today.” She states, her tone confused. “Why me?”  
  
Shrugging, you look down. “I trust you.” {Persuade:15+6=21}  
  
Assault looks on with a smirk, as Parian lets out a huff. “Fine. I’ll come with you. I’m still neutral, though, don’t expect me to come to any fight.”  
  
“Will the Empire give you that luxury, if they’re willing to come after me?” You reply softly.  
  
The doll-masked cape looks away from you sharply, her dress rustling and swaying under its own power. “I-” She nearly snarls, before cutting herself off, head bowing in thought. “I’ll think about it.”  
  
Assault leans towards you, hand to one side of his mouth as he mock-whispers to you. “Think that means yes.” He gives you a thumbs up, then yelps as a needle darts out of Parian’s dress to jab him in the side, between the armor plates. “Ow! I am an officer of the law, I could arrest you for that!” Despite his words, his tone is teasing, and Parian’s eyes roll behind her mask. “Ok, c’mon kid, let’s get back to the Rig so we can hash out how to get your old man back.”  
  
You nod, and before you know it, you are sitting in the back of a PRT van, rumbling its way through Brockton Bay towards the Rig.  
  
  
  
Over the next few hours, you hash out the details of your call with Kaiser over and over again, first to a pair of PRT troopers, then to Armsmaster, then to Director Piggot herself, until your throat is sore, and you have to drink a mug of warm tea with enough sugar in it to nearly stand the spoon upright to soothe it. Parian, true to her words, stays quietly by your side. At first, the Protectorate wants to go in without you to retrieve your father, but you insist that you have to go along, that if the Empire doesn’t see you, they’ll just execute him out of hand. A grizzled trooper captain reluctantly agrees that it matches Kaiser’s M.O., and you’re tentatively included in the plans, such as they are. In return, you grudgingly give them an overview of your offensive capabilities, as well as your ability to heal.  
  
“We can’t devote all of our resources to this operation,” Armsmaster states clinically. “There are too many threats in the city, and it’s not impossible that this may be a tactic to create openings elsewhere.” The hero’s lips purse. “Assault and Battery, with Miss Militia on overwatch.” He glances at a map with traced patrol routes and gang hotspots. “That’s all we can spare.”  
  
“What about the Wards?” You ask.  
  
Armsmaster scowls. “PRT regulations strictly limit our ability to deploy underage parahumans into combat with adult villains.” He glances at you, then back to the screen. “It’s only because you are outside of the chain of command and likely critical to the operation that we are willing to have you involved.”  
  
Parian bows her head, then looks up, letting out an audible sigh. “Would there be a place for me?”  
  
Armsmaster regards her for a long while. “You plan to break your neutrality?” He asks, oddly gently.  
  
She stares back at the hero. “In defense of the Unwritten Rules, yes.”  
  
Armsmaster grunts to himself and nods curtly, but doesn’t say any more on the subject.  
  
  
  
Hours pass, and you find yourself, seemingly alone, on 9th street, about a block away from the intersection with Moorehead. From the top of a rusty, broken-down crane at a defunct construction site across from the warehouse, Miss Militia whispers over the earpiece in your ear. “The Empire’s there. I count… Kaiser, Kreig, Othala, and Rune.” You can hear the frown in her voice as she continues. “Danny is there, bound to a chair. It looks like Kreig is setting up a camera. No non-powered Empire members are visible.”  
  
You gulp. From an alley, Assault gives you a thumbs up. You nod back and make your way down the street to the warehouse. It’s a massive building, old stonework, with high, narrow windows with many cracked or missing panes and a rusted metal roof. Walking up to a pair of heavy metal doors, chains that had once held the handles shut scattered by the sidewalk, you take a moment, center yourself and let yourself sink into the warm light of The Bulb, and knock on the door. It swings open on its own, and you step inside.  
  
“Ah, Miss Hebert. Or would you prefer Saccharine?” Kaiser drawls, from the center of a cone of bright light, coming from a single spotlight, hanging from an overhead lamp. He’s standing behind a heavy wooden chair, where your father sits slumped, arms and legs bound by heavy leather straps. {Perception:11+2=13} The straps and chair look like they would be tough to break, you would need to be far stronger than you are now, or exceptionally lucky, to get him out of the chair quickly. Kaiser drums armored fingers on the high back of the chair. “You’ve already made quite a name for yourself. Your little candies are quite popular.” He inclines his head, the spikes of his iron crown casting dramatic shadows. “I wonder if you think that popularity will be enough to protect you from reaping what you have sowed.”  
  
“Your men attacked me first. You broke the Rules.”  
  
“Miss Hebert, I simply extended a hand to you in greeting, and you responded by murdering my representative.” Kaiser purrs. {Insight:15+2=17}  
  
You glance over at the camera, just outside of the cone of light, Krieg standing silently beside it in his SS uniform, a chromed skull mask glinting under the brim of his peaked hat. Kaiser’s posturing. The camera is on, although you have no way of telling whether it’s streaming or recording. You glance up, and see, standing on a floating manhole cover, the robed figure of Rune, and Othala steps out from the shadows behind Kaiser. Where is Victor? You know they’re never far apart, at least from your research on PHO.  
  
“No response, Miss Hebert?” Kaiser drawls. “I would have thought you would be more… willing to engage in a dialogue with us, considering the state of your father.”  
  
“What do you want?” You say, softly.  
  
“Why, I wish to acquire your services, of course.”  
  
You force yourself to laugh. “You want me to make you some little swastika-shaped mints for your Nazi pep rallies?”  
  
“Miss Hebert, you and I both know that candy-making is the least of your talents, despite your appearance.” Kaiser gestures, and a brutal-looking broadsword emerges from the bare pavement by your father’s chair. The gang leader grasps it as it breaks free from the pavement, and Othala steps forward, resting a hand on your father’s shoulder. He jerks awake, looking around frantically before his eyes meet yours, and he groans through a knotted cloth gag. Kaiser’s head tilts to the side like he’s listening, then he chuckles, his voice echoing hollowly inside his helmet. “And you broke the rules.” He raises his sword over your father’s arms.  
  
You hear Assault whisper “Go!” in your earpiece, and there’s the crack of a rifle and the crash of shattering glass. Kaiser staggers backward as a bullet slams into his shoulder, glancing off his armor.  
  
As Rune swoops down behind you, Assault crashes through the brick wall of the warehouse with a bellowed “Oh, YEAH!”, Battery darting around him in a crackle of electricity. The doors slam open behind you, and a massive stuffed bear, fabric shear claws screeching on the rusted metal, lumbers inside.  
  
  
  
You bare your teeth in a mint-white snarl. Let’s get this done.


	7. Chapter 7

{Perception: 12+2=14}  
The world seems to still around you, and your eyes dart frantically around the dark warehouse. It’s too dark outside the cone of bright yellow light, which seems just bright enough to dazzle you and keep you from adjusting to the dark corners and edges of the room. You can, however, see a glint of reflected light off a large loading bay door, all the way across the huge warehouse floor. To your right, a tangled mess of shipping containers fills the second half of the warehouse. There may be a way further inside, but the deep shadows and dim light keeps you from being certain, and you won’t be able to tell until you get closer.  
  
“Krieg.” Assault exclaims dramatically. Taking advantage of the distraction, you begin muttering to yourself, fingers twitching, and feel the invisible presence of an Unseen Servant appear at your side, before a wickedly sharp, yet brittle boxcutter formed of obsidian-like candy appears in your hand.  
  
“Fool.” The capped Nazi replies, exasperation lurking behind his heavy German accent. Slipping the blade into the invisible presence’s hand, you flick your fingers towards your father, framed in the cone of light, and the silent specter begins to float forward, low to the ground.  
  
“Krieg! I hope you know that this means WAR!” Battery groans quietly at her partner’s antics. “Don’t you know that kidnapping a girl’s father just isn’t Reich?” Assault taps his chin in mock thought. “Ah, right, Holocaust, Nazis, evil bastards… It’s perfectly in character!”  
  
“I am going to enjoy shutting your mouth, _hero_.” Krieg snarls, and leaps into a charge, almost seeming to float as he lunges at Assault, who meets his punch with a punch of his own. You almost expect a shockwave as their fists meet, but instead, the attacks meet as gently as a fistbump between jocks in Winslow hallways.  
  
There’s another sharp retort of gunfire, and Miss Militia’s voice crackles over your earpiece. “Victor sighted!” _Crack!_ The second shot comes from a different direction, and has a slightly different tone. “He’s got a sniper nest, engaging!”  
  
Othala glanced nervously at Kaiser at the sound of the shot, and he inclines his crowned head. The healer darts off towards the back of the warehouse, but before she can disappear into the shadows, Battery moves around to cut her off in a blur of blue-white light.  
  
Clutching your amulet, you glance down at the knife slowly scooting along, inches off the ground, then look back at your Dad, and his bruised, squinting face meets yours. You wink, and he shakes his head subtly, fresh tears welling in his eyes. Kaiser takes a step forward, raising the broadsword in both hands over your father. “I am sorry, Miss Hebert, but you have forced my hand.”  
  
Shit! He’s too far away! You raise a hand, fingers clawed, and snarl out a prayer. “ _The light of The Bulb shall punish your wickedness! HEX!_ ” Barbed chains of honey-yellow light erupt from your fingertips and coil around Kaiser’s limbs, inch-long thorns phasing through his armor before solidifying. The villain reels back, clawing at the glowing chains, but his fingers pass through them like shadows. “Let him go, Kaiser!” You call, as a paisley-patterned bat swoops overhead to flutter and batter at Rune’s face. Parian’s bear lumbers up beside you, and you spot the doll-masked fashionista out of the corner of your eye, countless needles in dozens of sizes swirling around her trailing a web of rainbow-colored thread.  
  
{Dexterity: 6+2=8. Failed. 2D8 Slashing: 3. 16 HP remain. Concentration: 14+1=15. Passed.}  
Kaiser snarls and gestures sharply upwards with one gauntlet. An oval fence of barbed blades explodes from the concrete under your feet, making you stumble forward, dagger-like thorns slashing at your arms and back as they rise. You grunt with pain, but you aren’t badly injured. Yet. It’s a struggle to contain your trepidation. Kaiser has trapped you in a massive steel cage, with only yourself, the villain, and your father contained in a cage of light. As you watch, blades unfold and mesh together from the top of each pole, climbing higher and higher into a dome. Your unseen servant comes to a halt underneath the heavy chair holding your father captive. Free him!  
  
“Why me, Kaiser?” You pant. “Why go after the candy girl?” {Persuade: 6+6=12.}  
  
The neo-nazi rolls his helmeted head in an exaggerated movement, the affectations of a man used to emoting through heavy plate as he casually strolls towards you. “Surely you aren’t that dim-witted? You took something from me. And I learned such interesting things, in the aftermath.”  
  
Your brow furrows, as the strap on one of the arms of Dad’s chair begins to shake, a large buckle that you didn’t see previously moving as your servant begins to undo the strap, ignoring the knife entirely. Keep him talking. {Insight: 17+2=19} It hits you in a flash as the restraints on one of your father’s arms loosen enough for him to pull it out of the strap. Somehow, Kaiser must know or suspect about your healing capabilities. Well fuck him, then. As your dad reaches for the buckle on his other arm, you grip your amulet in one hand, yanking it off your neck. “The light of The Bulb will reveal your sins.” There’s no rage left in your voice, only cold determination.  
  
{Dexterity saving throw (Disadvantage): 1, 7 = 1, Failed. Sacred Flame: 1d8=5, Hex: 1d6=1, 6 damage.}  
  
Kaiser freezes mid-stride, and you hear a faint “The what?” before the thorned chains of your Hex tighten, and a column of light crashes down on the villain, sending him crashing to the ground. You dart around him, kneeling beside your father and frantically unbuckling the bonds on his ankles, ignoring the muffled swearing coming from inside the armor.  
  
There’s a massive crash and the sound of twisting metal from outside the cage, followed by Assault’s madcap laughter. “Missed me, ya putz! What happened to that vaunted German accuracy? Or is that just watches?” Krieg just screams in rage.  
  
You spare a glance at Kaiser, who is pushing himself to his feet, only feet away from you and your father. With a flick of your fingers and a muttered prayer, light descends from above again, but the villain must have heard you, because he hurls himself to one side, rolling into a crouch, one hand on the fence surrounding you. A dark chuckle echoes from inside his helm. “Drama, Miss Hebert, is the death of many a cape.” {Dexterity saving throw (Disadvantage): 16, 16 = 16, Passed.}  
  
Slowly, you stand, your father standing behind you. Your eyes dart to Kaiser’s broadsword, lying abandoned on the ground, and with a moment of focused thought, the weapon leaps from the ground into your father’s hand, courtesy of the Unseen Servant. “Hubris, _Herr_ Kaiser, is the death of many more.” You spit, before letting a mote of healing light fill your father. He straightens, bruises fading, and grips the sword tightly in both hands.  
  
“Battery, charge me up!” Assault bellows, and then a heartbeat later, a ball of twisted metal careens through the cage surrounding you, swiftly followed by the red-clad hero. His costume is torn and battered, but he seems mostly unharmed, unlike the limp form of Kreig, barely visible through the hole behind him. “Let the civilians go, Kaiser.” He states, and for once, a thread of humor is nowhere to be found.  
  
Kaiser snorts, and an abrupt gesture with a gauntleted hand causes a massive blade to drop from the ceiling at the hero, who dives out of the way. So you call down holy light on the bastard again. {Dexterity saving throw (Disadvantage): 7, 9 = 7, Failed. Sacred Flame: 1d8=6, Hex: 1d6=2, 8 damage.}  
  
Swearing, swaying at the damage inflicted by holy light and spectral thorns, but unwavering, Kaiser slashes a hand at you. You try to dive out of the way, but a spear erupts from the concrete floor, the sharp blade slicing neatly through the candied muscle of your thigh. Clutching at the wound, you tumble to the ground with a scream of agony. {Dexterity: 6+2=8. Failed. 2D8 Slashing: 12. 4 HP remain. Concentration: 9+1=10. Passed.}  
{Healing Light: 2d6=2. 6 HP remain.}  
As you frantically channel the light of The Bulb into the wound, Assault bounces off the wall of the cage, accelerating as he goes, before slapping the heavy wooden chair. It nearly vanishes with a sharp _crack_ of displaced air, and explodes against Kaiser’s breastplate, hurling him bodily against the steel wall, where he slumps to the ground. Outside, you hear a whipcrack, followed by muffled swearing, but all you can think about is the deep gash in your leg and the throbbing flow of syrupy blood. Your father kneels beside you, ripping off his shirt, already dirtied with his own dried blood, and starts frantically wrapping the wound. “Taylor, did you heal yourself?”  
  
“Yeah,” you sob. “I’m all out. I’m so sorry.”  
  
“It’s ok, sweetie, you’re going to be fine.”  
  
“I know, Dad.” And as the constant pulse of The Bulb soothes your panic, you realize, with a sense of profound certainty, that you will not die, not from this wound. Looking away from where your crimson blood is flowing over your father’s fingers, you see Assault carelessly toss a containment foam bomb onto the fallen form of Kaiser, where it cracks and erupts in gouts of yellow-white foam that swiftly encase the villain. He touches the side of his helmet, and then nods.  
  
“Miss Militia drove off Victor.” He says as he kneels beside you, pulling out a roll of bandages from his utility belt. “And I think Pu- Battery and Parian got Rune.” You nod and look down at your leg. Your thick licorice blood is already clotting, and you pull yourself to your feet, nearly shoving Assault away as you lurch towards the pile of foam and villainy.  
  
“Taylor, what are you doing?” Dad asks, and you grab at his arm, pulling him along until you’re standing next to Kaiser. Wordlessly, you reach out and grab one of the spikes on his helm. “Taylor, answer me.” You glare at your father, forcing yourself to look past the fading bruises, let go of the helm, and grab his wrist, pulling his hand up to where he can see it. He’s missing the pinkie of his left hand, the stump already healed over from your efforts.  
  
“He took our safety. He took our peace of mind. He took our anonymity.” You whisper. “He took your finger, he almost took our lives.” Danny gulps, his eyes glued to the stump of his missing finger. He flexes his hand and winces, before his gaze goes steely, staring down at the villain, meeting the shadowed eye-holes of the crowned helmet.  
  
“I can’t hide behind a mask, Dad.” You whisper. “Why should Kaiser?”  
  
“Hey, Taylor, I know you’re a bit pissed right now, and I don’t blame you, but the unwritten rules are there for a reason,” Assault says from behind you. “If you do what I think you’re about to do… That removes a lot of potential protections from you.”  
  
You spin and glare at the hero. “Protections.” Snarling, you gesture at your father’s fading bruises, at your gashed leg, at the wreckage around you. “ _Protections?_ **What** protections? The Empire 88 drove me out of my home, accosted me when I was out on the street, kidnapped my father, and tried to pressgang me into their service. Tell me, Assault. What. Protection. Do. I. **Have?** ” {Persuasion: 10+6=16}  
  
The hero opens his mouth, then closes it, gritting his jaw, before glancing over to the ragged opening in the fence. “Oh dear, I need to go help secure the villains. Stick tight, yeah?” With a twitch of his head, he nods towards the toppled form of the camera, still on a tripod just inside the steel gate, and then walks out. You limp to the camera and pick it up, looking it over, before grinning. Just a camcorder, but there’s still plenty of storage left. It only takes a moment to set up the tripod, your father standing behind the camera, focused on you. You take a deep breath, let it out. Dad nods, brow furrowed.  
  
“My name is Taylor Hebert, and today, the Empire 88 tried to force me to join their gang, by abducting my father, ignoring the Unwritten Rules.” You gesture down at Kaiser, behind you, and he begins to stir. Not what you planned, but yes, this will work nicely. “I can’t hide who I am. My trigger event changed me forever, and Kaiser thought that gave him permission to do as he pleased.” You lower your head, let your licorice bangs fall in front of your face for a moment. “But if I can’t hide who I am…” In one swift movement, you rip off Kaiser’s helmet and hurl it across the room, revealing his dazed face, a trickle of blood dripping out of his nose, blond hair matted and unkempt from sweat. “Then neither can he.” The villain blinks blearily at the camera, then blanches.  
  
Your father swears under his breath, then slowly, deliberately, drawls out a name. “Max Anders.”  
  
“Who?” Assault yelps from the entry to the cage, before going silent, making vigorous slashing motions at his neck. You nod to your dad, and he shuts off the camera, pocketing the memory card.  
  
You glower down at the villain. Max Anders. CEO of Medhall Pharmaceutical, the richest bastard in Brockton Bay, and apparently, a Nazi. He glowers back at you. “You’ll regret this.” He spits, and a glob of bloody saliva splats onto your jacket.  
  
“You have the right to shut the hell up, Kaiser.” Assault snaps as he appears by your side, Kaiser’s helmet in hand. He roughly shoves it on the villain’s head, before pulling you back and tossing another containment foam grenade, coating him in another layer of foam and obscuring his vision. “I get why you wanted to do that, I really do, but kid, this just got a hell of a lot more complicated.”  
  
“Why, cause he’s a rich, powerful white guy?” You snarl back. “And now that you know it, the PRT is going to look the other way to preserve the status quo.”  
  
“Because Max Anders is the head of the largest employer in Brockton Bay, and if we’re not careful in how we pursue this, very expensive lawyers are going to make sure he gets away clean and doesn’t face any consequences for his crimes.” Assault gingerly puts his hand on your shoulder. “Give us a chance, and I’ll make sure we nail this bastard to the wall. If we do this the right way, his reputation will be in ruins, the company will still be standing, but not be in the Nazi’s pockets, and he’ll be in jail for a long, long time.”  
  
“Or he’ll break out of prison and go right back to what he was doing.” Danny bites out. “Bastard always struck me as slimy, found every way he could to weasel his way out of paying my guys their fair wages.” He pauses for a moment. “If we hold onto the information, keep it from going public, that might give us the leverage we need to keep him at a distance.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is being run as a quest on Spacebattles.net, located here:
> 
> https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/even-in-brockton-bay-there-is-strength-in-sweetness-worm-a-crown-of-candy-d-d-5e.876279/


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